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 PUBLISHED EACH ALTERNATE MONTH, 
 
 In Feap. Volumes, piice 3s. M. each, 
 
 THE 
 
 LIBRARY OF CHRISTIAN BIOGRAPHY 
 
 SUPEEINTENDED BY 
 
 THE REV. IIOBERT BICKERSTETH, M.A. 
 
 Rector of St. Gilcs'-in-the-Piclds, and 
 Canon of Salisbury. 
 
 fbc i.mi ^'iK JJoIuuus bill tontuiit : — 
 
 VOL. I. THE LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 II. THE LIFE OF FELIX NEFF. 
 
 III. THE LIFE OF JOHN BRADFORD. 
 
 IV. THE LIFE OF JOHN NEWTON. 
 V. THE LIFE OF DAVID BRAINERD. 
 
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 '^iViCilam Cowpct. 
 
 Aflcr Lawrence, 1793.
 
 THE 
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER 
 
 WITH 
 
 SRLECTTONS FROM HIS CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 SF.ELEY, JACKSON, AND HALLIPAY, FLEET STREET, 
 
 AND li. SEELEY, HANOVER STRKRT, 
 
 LONDON. MDCCCLV.
 
 J 
 
 LONDON: 
 I'riiito.l by f!. Baiiolat, Castle St. Leicester Sq.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The selection of the Life of William Cowper, for the 
 opening of the present series, has been suggested, not 
 merely by the popularity of the subject, hut also by the 
 fact that such a volume was obviously required. The 
 existing Memoirs of the poet are bulky and expensive- 
 The smaller work of Mr. Taylor has been long out of 
 print, and its republication was hardly to be desired ; 
 since, having been written before the appearance of 
 Dr. Southey's Memoir, it is necessai'ily imperfect, and 
 open to correction in many particulars. Hence the 
 most natural course, seemed to be to prepare a new 
 work, rather than to reproduce any of the old ones. 
 
 It has been stated in the Prospectus of the present 
 Series, that it is intended in general to give the most
 
 IV PKKFACE. 
 
 original and authentic memoir t4iat in each case is 
 found to exist. In commencing, therefore, in the 
 present instance, with a new compilation, it is oh- 
 viously expedient to point out the necessity which 
 has existed for thus departing from what is intended 
 to he the general rule. 
 
 In the present case, the Private Memoir, written 
 by Cowper himself, of the first thirty-four years of his 
 life, is the only document which can be called authentic ; 
 and which has some sort of completeness. It is given 
 entire in the Appendix to the present volume. But 
 this narrative includes only the first and most barren 
 portion of the poet's life. 
 
 The other biographies of Cowper which exist could 
 neither be copied nor abridged. The two principal 
 writers, Hayley and Southey, were each ^vholly unfit 
 fur the task, from their want of appreciation of the 
 poet's views and feelings. We do not usuall}'^ look 
 to an ardent Churchman as the fittest person to de- 
 lineate the character of an eminent Dissenter. A 
 Jesuit, however able, would not be the right per- 
 son to frame a memoir of an eminent Jansenist, 
 nor a Scotcli Presbyterian to give the history of Arch-
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 bishop Laud. Yet the history of Cowper's life has 
 beau twice accepted at the hands of men who plainly 
 stated that they felt no sympathy with his religious 
 views. The consequence was inevitable. Neither of 
 these Memoirs does justice to its subject. 
 
 On the other hand, Mr. Grimshawe's version of 
 Hayley's Life is little more than a mere thread, 
 stringing together the poet's letters ; and Mr. Taylor's 
 volume is wanting in much valuable infurmatiou, 
 which had not become public at the time when he 
 wrote. 
 
 The reader will, therefore, hardly blame the Editor 
 for preferring to give a new compilation, rather than 
 reproduce any of the attempts to which reference has 
 just been made. 
 
 It is hoped that the present attempt will be found 
 sufficiently full, and generally fair. The compiler, 
 while he admits a general sympathy with Cowper's 
 religious views, has had no other pui-pose or desire 
 than simply to speak the truth. He is aware that 
 this one narrative presents difficulties which will hardly 
 occur in any other case. That he has entirely over- 
 come them is more than lie can venture to hope.
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 Still, he trusts, that the hinate interest attaching to 
 the subject, and the full light which has been thrown 
 upon it by recent researches, will suffice to render the 
 narrative a popular one; < and, he would fain hope, 
 that, a Divine blessing accompanying it, it may be- 
 come, in some respects, an useful one also. 
 
 London, Dec. 23, 1854.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. rillLDHOOD AND YOUTH .... 1 
 
 fr. EART.Y MANHOOD . ..... 8 
 
 III. RECOVERY AND RETIREMENT . . . .23 
 
 IV. FIRST PERIOD OF HIS RESIDENCE AT OLNEY 55 
 
 V. SECOND ATTACK OF MENTAL ABERRATION 
 
 GRADUAL RECOVERY HIS POEMS . 82 
 
 Vr. RENEWED INTERCOURSE WITH HIS FAMILY . Ill 
 
 VIT. COWPER AT WESTON TRANSLATION OF HOMER 
 
 NEW FRIENDSHIPS .... 135 
 
 VII r. DECLINING YEARS, AND DEATH . . .172 
 
 IX. CONCLUSION . . . . • .208 
 
 APPENDIX . . . . . .289
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 I. 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 A.B. 1731—1748. 
 
 The case of Cowper has generally been regarded as ono 
 full of difficulty to the thoughtful mind. Yet it may be 
 fairly questioned, whether there arc any other difficulties 
 in the case than those which we create by our own hasty 
 and ill-grounded conclusions. The mere fact of his long- 
 continued mental suffisring offers no harder problem for 
 our solution than the bodily agonies of some Christians, or 
 the helpless povei-ty of many others. Our Lord forewarned 
 his disciples, " In the world ye shall have tribulation ;" 
 and his most eminent Apostle told us, that " Whom the 
 Lord loveth he chastencth, and scourgeth every son whom 
 he rcceiveth." Cowper himself may have spoken too un- 
 reservedly when he said, — 
 
 " The path of sorrow, and that path nhme, 
 Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown :" 
 
 But scarcely docs he go beyond the language of St. Paul : 
 " If ye are without chastisement, whereof all [the children] 
 arc partakers, then are ye bastards, and not soiw." 
 
 The supposed difficulties of the case, however, chiefly 
 originate in an idea that Cowper was driven into melan- 
 choly by liis religion. This is a conclusion which those 
 who dislike evangelical truth are ever ready to adopt ; and 
 
 B
 
 2 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 they have not always been met, as they ought to have been, 
 by a prompt denial and refutation. 
 
 Cowper's mind was of a very pecuhar construction. 
 Singularly refined and sensitive, and in some respects of a 
 high order of excellence, we observe in it another instance 
 of the near neighbourhood, in human beings, of strength 
 and weakness, — of beauty and decay. As it has been re- 
 marked, that the sublime and the ridiculous lie close to- 
 gether ; as the gi-eatest loveliness is often seen in one 
 , destined to an early grave ; so the very refinement of Cow- 
 per's mind resembled that of an instrument, which a breath 
 or a touch might, in a moment, put out of tunc. 
 
 But all this was a part of his bodily organisation : it 
 depended on the construction of certain portions of the 
 brain and nervous system. Now, who ever thinks of 
 making religion answerable for other bodily ailments or 
 misfortunes ? for weaknesses of the lungs, or of the eyes, or 
 of the limbs ? And when it is clear that Cowper's many 
 years of melancholy arose from nervous disorders, why 
 should we irrationally cast the blame on his rehgious 
 views ? 
 
 But is not the connexion evident, between his " gloomy 
 notions of religion " and his attacks of nervous depression % 
 Unquestionably not. Three several instances of nervous 
 disorder and of mental delusion are described by him, as 
 occurring in the first portion of his life, before he embraced 
 those views of religion with which his name afterwards be- 
 came inseparably connected. At school, in the Temple, 
 and on his appointment to office — in his eleventh, and 
 twenty-first, and thirty-first year, he suffered from attacks 
 of this kind : thus proving, beyond all doubt, that his 
 reception of evangelical truth, which dates from his 
 thirty-third year, had no share in causing those dis- 
 orders of the mind which occurred both before and after 
 his conversion. 
 
 AVc will not, however, anticipate the history which we 
 are about to write. We merely desire, at the outset, to 
 avow our rejection of the hypothesis advanced by some 
 writers, that the mental disorders of the poet were either 
 caused, or greatly aggra^'ated, by religion. Whoever shall
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 3 
 
 follow US, with a candid mind, through the narrative we 
 are now counnencing, will find how destitute of all real 
 foundation is this very common supposition. 
 
 William Cowpcr, " the most popular poet," says Southey, 
 " of his generation, and the best of English letter-writers," 
 was born on the loth of November, 1731 (o. s.), in the 
 rectory of Great Berkhampstead. His parentage was 
 elevated, if not illusti'ious. In the sixth year of Edward 
 IV., John Cowper, of Strode, in the parish of Slingfield, 
 Sussex, married the daughter and heiress of John Stan- 
 bridge of the same parish. Their descendant, Sir W. Cow- 
 per, baronet (a.d. 1631), erected a monument to Hooker, 
 more than thirty j'ears after his death, in the church of 
 Bishopsbourue. His grandson, also Sir William, was 
 father of the first Earl Cowper, and of Spencer Cowper, a 
 judge of the Court of Common Pleas. Dr. John Cowper, 
 chaplain to Gcoi-ge II., and rector of Great Berkhamp- 
 stead, was the judge's second son. His third was Ashley 
 Cowper, who, for sixty years, was clei'k to the House of 
 Lords. 
 
 Dr. Cowper married Anne, the daughter of Roger Donne, 
 Esq., of Ludliam Hall, in Norfolk. She died in 1737, at the 
 age of thii-ty-four, leaving, of several children, only two sons 
 surviving. William, the eldest, was at that time about six 
 years old ; of John, the younger, she died in child-bed. 
 Few of our readers can be ignoraut of the poet's affecting 
 reference to this, his first sorrow ; — 
 
 " My mother ! when I leam'd that thou wast dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
 Hover'd tliy sjiirit o'er thy soiTowing son, — 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
 Perhai)s thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss ; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bhss. 
 I heard the bell toll'd on thy bmial-day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; 
 And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu." 
 
 Thus ended the first short stage in the poet's life ; and
 
 4 LIFE OF WIUJAII COWPER. 
 
 if not tlic happiest, assuredly the one least marked hy any 
 suffering or adversity. The surviving parent having, pro- 
 bably, no female relative to fill a mother's place, took the 
 common, but generally mistaken course, and sent his child 
 to a large boarding-school. Seldom would the error be so 
 calamitous as on this occasion. The child was " delicate 
 to no common degree," and exhibited, even then, a con- 
 stitutional tendency to melancholy and despair. He was 
 consigned to the care of Dr. Pitman, the master of a large 
 academy in the town of Market- strete, in Hertfordshire. 
 
 " Here," he tells us, in his own brief memoir, " I had 
 hardships of various kinds to conflict with, which I felt 
 more sensibly in pi'oportion to the tenderness with which 
 I had been treated at home. But my chief affliction con- 
 sisted in being singled out from all the other boys, by a lad 
 of about fifteen years of ago, as a proper object upon whom 
 he might let loose the cruelty of his temper. I choose to 
 conceal a particular recital of the many acts of barbarity 
 with which he made it his business continually to per- 
 secute me. It will be sufficient to say, that his savage 
 treatment of me impressed such a dread of his figure upon 
 my mind, that I well remember being afraid to lift my 
 eyes upon him higher than. his knees; and that I knew 
 him better by his shoe-buckles than by any other part of 
 his dress. May the Lord pardon him, and may we meet 
 in glory ! 
 
 " One day as I was sitting alone upon a bench in the 
 school-room, melancholy, and almost ready to weep at the 
 recollection of what I had already suffered, and expecting 
 at the same time my tormentor every moment, the words 
 of the Psalmist came into my mind, ' I will not fear what 
 flesh can do unto me ! ' I applied them to my own case, 
 with a degree of trust and confidence in God that would 
 have been no disgrace to a much more experienced Christian. 
 I instantly perceived in myself a briskness of spirits and a 
 cheerfulness I had never before experienced, and took se- 
 veral paces up and down the room with joyful alacrity, • • 
 his gift in whom I trusted. But alas ! it was the first and 
 last instance of this kind between infancy and manhood. 
 The cruelty of this boy, which he had long practised in
 
 CaiLDUOUU AND YOUTH. 5. 
 
 SO secret a manner that no crcatnre suspected it, was at 
 length discovered ; he was expelled the schoul, and I was 
 taken from it." 
 
 The two points here which most claim our attention 
 are, his extreme timidity, and his early liability to impuUes. 
 Both these features in his character will meet us repeat- 
 edly in his after-history, and they explain many circum- 
 stances in his life. 
 
 Being removed from Dr. Pitman's, it was found that his 
 eye-sight was seriously affected, and he was placed under 
 the care of an eminent oculist, in whose house he appears 
 to have spent two years. At the end of that time he was 
 sufficiently recovered to enter Westminster School, then 
 under the care of Dr. NichoUs. Here he remained about 
 eight years, — years represented by some of his biographers 
 as spent in suffering, but which Southey regards as " pro- 
 bably the happiest in his hfe." His after-eminence proves 
 that his time during these eight years was not ill-spent. 
 He alludes to it in his Table Talk, in the following lines : 
 
 " At "Westminster, where little poets strive 
 To set a distich upon six and live, 
 Where Discipline helps opening bmls of sense, 
 And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, 
 1 was a poet too." 
 
 And in one of his letters he says,— 
 
 " He who cannot look forward Avith comfort, must find 
 what comfort he can in looking backward. Uj^ou this 
 principle I the other day sent my imagination upon a trip 
 thirty years behind me. She, very obedient, and very 
 swift of foot, presently performed her journey, and at last 
 set me down in the sixth form at Westminster. I fancied 
 myself once more a schoulboy ; a period of life in which, if 
 I had never tasted true happiness, I was at least equally 
 unacquainted with its contrary. No manufacturer of 
 waking dreams ever succeeded better in his employment 
 than I do ; I can weave such a piece of tapestry in a few 
 minutes as not only has all the charms of reality, but is 
 embellished also with a variety of beauties, which, though 
 thev never existed, are more captivating than anv that ever
 
 6 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 did. Accordingly I was a schoolljoy in high favour with 
 the master, received a silver groat for my exercise, and had 
 the pleasure of seeing it sent from form to form for the 
 admiration of all who were able to understand it." 
 
 In another letter he adds, — "When I was a boy, I 
 excelled at cricket aiad football ; but the fame I acquired 
 by achievements that way is long since forgotten." 
 
 In Tirocinium he thus refers to the same period : — 
 
 " Be it a weakness, it desen^es some praise, 
 "We love the playplace of our early days ; 
 The scene is touching, and the heart is stone 
 That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. 
 The wall on which we tried our graving skill, 
 The very name we carved subsisting still ; 
 The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd, 
 Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy'd : 
 The little ones, unbuttoned, glowing hot, 
 Playing our games, and on the very si^ot, 
 As happy as we once to kneel and draw 
 The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; 
 To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, 
 Or di'ive it devious with a dextrous pat ; 
 The pleasing spectacle at once excites 
 Such recollection of our own delights. 
 That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain 
 Our innocent, sweet, simple j-^ears again. 
 This fond attachment to the well-known place 
 Where first we started into life's long race, 
 [Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway. 
 We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day." 
 
 But while we regard those years of his life as neither 
 unhappy nor mis-spent, we must not overlook the fact that, 
 even in these, his liability to sudden impulses of joy or 
 sadness, not unmixed Avith mental delusion, was quite 
 perceptible. Tims, in describing his early life, he says of 
 this period : — 
 
 " I became so forgetful of mortality, that, strange as it 
 may seem, surveying my activity and strength, and ob- 
 serving the evenness of my pulse, I began to entertain, 
 with no small complacency, a notion that, perhaps, I might
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 7 
 
 never die. This notion was, howevei', very short-lived ; 
 for I was soon after struck with a lowness of spirits un- 
 common at my age, and frequently had intimations of a 
 consumptive habit. This messenger from the Lord- did 
 his errand, and perfectly convinced me that I was mortal." 
 
 In this great school Cowper naturally formed friend- 
 ships and connexions, more or less transitoiy, with many 
 men destined to act brilliant parts in the drama of life. 
 Hastings, Cumberland, Impey, BonncU Thornton, Colman, 
 and Lloyd, were among his intimates. Joseph Hill re- 
 mained his attached friend through life. Sir Richard 
 Sutton was his fellow-student in a more than ordinary 
 association ; but his most beloved associate was young 
 Russell, afterwards Sir AVilliam. Thus passed the years 
 away until he had reached the age of eighteen, when he 
 returned to Bcrkhampstead, and remained in the paternal 
 home for about three quarters of a year.
 
 8 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 II. 
 
 EAELY MANHOOD. 
 A.D. 1749—1763. 
 
 We now enter upon the next stage of Cowper's history — 
 that which is really the saddest portion of the whole — the 
 fourteen years spent by him in the metropolis after leaving 
 school. This period is generally given by his biographers 
 with the greatest vagueness ; events are narrated without 
 the slightest regard to their chronology, and the result is, 
 that the reader obtains only a confused idea of this, the 
 most eventful portion of his history. 
 
 The narrative of these fourteen years divides itself into 
 two portions ; the year 17.57 being, as we shall find, the 
 crisis of this part of his existence. 
 
 " At the age of eighteen," he tells us in his own narra- 
 tive, "being tolerably well furnished with gi-ammatical 
 knowledge, but as ignorant of all kinds of religion as the 
 satchel at my back, I was taken from Westminster ; and 
 having spent about nine months at home, was sent to ac- 
 quire the practice of the law with an attorney. There I 
 might have lived and died, without seeing or hearing any- 
 thing that might remind me of one single Christian duty, 
 had it not been that I was at liberty to spend my leisure 
 hours (which were well-nigh all my time) at my aunt's, in 
 Southampton Eow. By this means I had the opportunity 
 of seeing the inside of a church, whither I went with the 
 family on Sundays, and which, probably, I should other- 
 wise never have seen." 
 
 From his letters we further learn, that a fellow-clerk at 
 this same attorney's (Mr. Chapman's), was a young man 
 from Canterbury school, named Tluirlow, This youth, 
 destined in after-life to mount the woolsack, was intro-
 
 KARLY MANHOOD. 9 
 
 duccci by Cow^iei' at his uncle's house. Writing to Lady 
 Hcskcth, many years after, he says : — 
 
 " I did actually live three years with Mr. Chapman, a 
 solicitor — that is to say, I slept three years in his house ; 
 but I lived — that is to say, I spent my days, in Southamp- 
 ton Row, as you very well remember. There was I and 
 the future Lord Chancellor constantly employed, from 
 morning to night, in giggling and making giggle, instead of 
 studying the law. Oh, he, cousin ! how could you do so ?" 
 
 Mr, Ashley Cowper, his father's brother, then resided 
 in what was, in that day, a fashionable part of the town, 
 near to the Duke of Bedford's, the French ambassador's, 
 and the abodes of many other persons of rank. His house 
 was the ninth from the passage which leads into Queen 
 Square, and was, at that time, nearly the last in the new 
 buildings, which looked out on the gardens of the duke's 
 abode. It is at present No. 30 in Southampton Row. 
 Offering thus a most agreeable place of resort, and ren- 
 dci'ed still more attractive by the presence of two young 
 cousins of the gentler sex, it is no wonder that a youth 
 like William Cowper, left to his own choice, should con- 
 stantly prefer this pleasant drawing-room to the tedious 
 occupations of an attorney's office. We need add no 
 stronger condemnation of his conduct than that which 
 he affixed to it himself, in a letter written to a youthful 
 friend more than thirty years afterwards.* Therein he 
 says : — 
 
 " You do well, my dear sir, to improve your opportu- 
 nity ; to speak in the rural phrase, this is your sowing- 
 time, and the sheaves you look for can never be yours, 
 imlcss you make that use of it. The colour of our whole 
 life is generally such as the three or four first years in 
 which we are our own masters make it. Then it is that 
 we may be said to shape our own destiny, and to treasure 
 up for ourselves a series of future successes or disappoint- 
 ments. Had I employed my time as wisely as you, in a 
 situation very similar to yours, I had never been a poet, 
 perhaps ; but I might by this time have acquired a cha- 
 
 * To Samuel Rose, Esq. July 83, 17S9.
 
 10 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 racter of more importance in society ; and a situation in 
 which my friends would have been better pleased to see 
 me. But three years mis-spent in an attorney's office were, 
 almost of course, followed by several more equally mis- 
 spent in the Temple ; and the consequence has been, as 
 the Italian epitaph says, ' Sto qui ! ' (Here I am !) The only 
 use I can make of myself now — at least the best — is to 
 serve in terrorem to others, when occasion may happen to 
 offer, that they may escape (as far as my admonitions can 
 have any weight with them) my folly and my fate." 
 
 But we must not overlook a fact, which, though it con- 
 stitutes no excuse, does considerably account for his de- 
 viation from the path of prudence and duty. His relative's 
 house in Southampton Eow was the abode, as we have 
 said, of his two female cousins. Wheu he first became a 
 visitor there, his uncle apparently thought little of what 
 soon became a probable result ; for the eldest of the two, 
 Harriet, who afterwards became Lady Hesketh, was but 
 fifteen, and the second, only thirteen or foiu-teen. A third, 
 Elizabeth, who, in 1759, married Sir Archer Croft, an Irish 
 baronet, was probably, when Cowper was a visitor at the 
 house, merely a girl at school ; and her name rarely occurs 
 in his history. But the three years mostly spent in his 
 uncle's drawing-room, which had gradually carried their 
 cousin to manhood, had made Harriet, the eldest, "a 
 brilliant beauty, who attracted all eyes," while Theodora, 
 the second, became " an accomplished woman, — her person 
 elegant, and her understanding more than ordinarily good." 
 
 In 1752, having arrived at man's estate, Cowqier left Mr. 
 Chapman's and took chambers in the Middle Temple. 
 Here, he tells us, he was " struck, not long after his settle- 
 ment, with such a dejection of spirits, as none but they 
 who have felt the same can have the least conception of. 
 Day and night I was upon the rack, Ijnng down in horror, 
 and rising up in despair. I presently lost all relish for 
 those studies to which I had before been closely attached ; 
 the classics had no longer any charms for me : I had need 
 of something more sahitary than amusement, but I had 
 no one to direct mc where to find it. 
 
 " At length I met with Herbert's Poems ; and, gothic
 
 EARLY MAJS^HOOD. 11 
 
 and uncouth as they were, I yet found in them a strain of 
 piety which I could not but admire. This was the only 
 author I had any delight in reading. I pored over him all 
 day long ; and though I found not here, what I might have 
 found, a cure for my malady, yet it never seemed so much 
 aheviated as while I was reading him. At length I was 
 advised by a very near and dear relative to lay him aside ; 
 for he thought such an author more likely to nourish my 
 disorder than to remove it." 
 
 There can be no doubt that we here meet with another 
 instance of those sudden gushes of melancholy, to which 
 he was liable all his life through. But we must also ob- 
 serve, that it was just at this period that he began to be 
 aware of his own deep attachment to the younger of his 
 two cousins, and of her return of that feeling. It is in 
 1752 that we first meet with verses addressed to Theodora, 
 in which he avows his passionate admiration, and attributes 
 to her influence certain improvements which had taken 
 place in his manners and demeanour. Smaller poems of 
 this kind are repeated in the little volume of his Early 
 Pieces, until, in 1755, anxious doubts and fears begin to be 
 expressed, and it becomes apparent that obstacles had pre- 
 sented themselves to the accomphshment of his fondest 
 wishes. 
 
 In 1754 Cowper went through the ceremony of being 
 called to the bar. It is quite evident, from the whole tenor 
 of his life, that a laborious pursuit of the law was never 
 his purpose. His family connexions were kno'mi to have 
 patronage at their disposal ; but one necessary qualification 
 was the rank of a barrister. Possessing this title, CoAvi^er 
 was actually made a Commissioner of Bankrupts, and 
 might, as wc shall presently see, have held the more hicra- 
 tive post of clerk to the House of Lords, had not his 
 malady prevented his acceptance of this appointment. 
 
 But now the ripened attachment of the cousins ren- 
 .dered a decision necessary. " When jMr. Ashley Cowi^er," 
 says Southey, " perceived their mutual inchnation, he ob- 
 jected to it, at first, on the score of want of means, and said 
 to his daughter, ' If you marry William Cowper, what will 
 you do V ' " 'Do, sir V she replied ; ' wash all day, and ride
 
 1 2 LIFE OF WILLIAM CUW^EU. 
 
 out on the great dog at night !' " An answer which, under 
 the apparent gaiety of a playful temper, indicated also a 
 willingness to encounter any hardships for his sake. 
 
 But a further, and an unalterable objection, was started ; 
 namely, that the marriage of persons so nearly connected 
 was unlawful. This superstition, formerly general, has now 
 nearly died away ; but at this period it induced Mr. Ashley 
 Cowper to place an absolute negative on the proposal. Whe- 
 ther his calm consideration of his nephew's personal cha- 
 racter and prospects in life had not some share in fixing 
 his decision, can only be the subject of conjecture. 
 
 In 1755, in his verses to Theodora, Cowper utters the 
 language of doubt and despondency. In 1756 he lost his 
 father. " I was sent for," says he, " to attend him in his 
 last illness, and he died just before I arrived. Then, and 
 not till then, I felt, for the first time, that I and my native 
 place were disunited for ever ; I sighed a long adieu to 
 fields and woods, from which I once thought I never should 
 be pai'ted, and was at no time so sensible of their beauties 
 as just when I left them all behind me, to return no more." 
 
 And now, left alone, to be the guide of his own actions, 
 and " the cousins not ceasing to love, or occasionally to 
 meet," his inicle evidently felt some decided step to be 
 needed. In 1757 a double stroke fell upou the poet, for 
 such he already was. His most valued friend. Sir William 
 Russell, was drowned while bathing in the Thames ; and his 
 uncle broke Tip his establishment in Southampton Row, 
 and removed Theodora from that perilous vicinity. Even 
 correspondence was forbidden, as we gather from an allu- 
 sion in a letter to the elder sister, then become Lady Hes- 
 keth, in 1763, wdiercin he says, "Adieu, my dear cousin ! 
 So much as I love you, I wonder how it happened that I 
 never was in love with you. Thank Heaven that I never 
 was ! for I have a pleasure in writing to you, which in that 
 case I should have forfeited." 
 
 Thus separated, at the same moment, from the two 
 persons most beloved, there burst from Cowpcr's heart that 
 pathetic complaint, addressed to Theodora's sister, in 
 which he first shows himself a poet possessed of more than 
 common powers ;—
 
 EARLY MANHOOD. 13 
 
 " Poom'fl, as I fim, in solitude to waste 
 The present moments, and regret the pas:t ; 
 Deprived of every joy I valued most, 
 !My friend torn from mo, and my mistress lost ; 
 Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien, 
 The dull effect of hiunour, or of spleen ! 
 Still, still, I mourn, with each retiu'ning day. 
 Him snatch'd hy fate, in early youth away ; 
 And her — through tedious years of doubt and pain, 
 I'ix'd in her choice, and faithful — hut in vain. 
 O prone to jiity, generous, and sincere. 
 Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear ; 
 Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, 
 Nor thinks a lover's are hut fancied woes ; 
 See me, ere yet my distant coiarse half done, 
 Cast forth a wand'rer on a wild unknown ! 
 See me neglected on the world's rude coast, 
 Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! 
 Nor ask why clouds of soiTOw shade my Lrow, 
 And ready tears wait only leave to flow ; 
 Wliy, all that soothes a heart from anguish free, 
 All that delights the happy, palls with me.'* 
 
 And thus ends, with the year 1757, the first, most in- 
 teresting, and most blameless, portion of his London life. 
 Crushed, as he describes himself, by this ■wreck of the 
 hopes which he had cherished " through tedious years of 
 doubt and pain," he turned to literary dissipation, and the 
 usual occupations of an idle Templar, for such consolations 
 as they could afford. 
 
 We must not, however, conceal the diftorent result on 
 the two cousins. It appears as if, in most cases, hope is 
 absolutely needful to keep affection alive in the heart of 
 man. When this was utterly gone, Cowpcr could tell of 
 "clouds of sorrow" and "ready tears ;" but when months 
 had rolled by, the mind gi-adually recovered its tone, and 
 then female excellence, in other forms, found in him a 
 
 • It has becu said, even by Cowjier's latest biographer, tliat the date of 
 these lilies cannot be ascertained. But surely there can exist no doubt 
 on this point? They speak of a recent sorrow. Now, Sir W. Russell's death 
 is given as occunnnpr in 1757 in all the obituaries, and Jlr. Ashley Cowper's 
 removal from Southampton Row is found to have taken place in the same 
 j-ear, by a reference to the parocliiiU records.
 
 14 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 ready admirer. Southcy has detected, in a letter wiitteii 
 to his friend Rowley, in August 1758, — which was, probably, 
 more than a year after his final separation from Theo- 
 dora, — a description, full of passionate admiration, of a 
 yomig lady whom he had seen at Greenwich. He says, 
 " No one can be more modest, or more silent ; but when 
 she speaks, you might believe a muse was speaking. Woe 
 is me that so bright a star looks to another region I 
 having risen in the West Indies, thither it is about to 
 return, and wiU leave me nothing but sighs and tears." 
 
 To his beloved cousin we trace, after this, scarcely an 
 allusion in his writings or correspondence. Many years after 
 he says to Lady Hesketh, " I still look back to the memory 
 of your sister, and regret her ; but how strange it is that, 
 if we were to meet now, we should not know one another ! " 
 Doubtless, when Co^^'per experienced the greatest of all 
 changes, and became " a living man," the recollection that 
 the lively girl with whom he used to "giggle and make 
 giggle " in Southampton Row, would feel no sympathy with 
 his deepest feehngs, helped to suppress all desire that they 
 should meet again. To her sister, Lady Hesketh, Cowper 
 freely wrote of the altered feelings of his soul with respect 
 to religion, and the consequence was, a cessation of the 
 correspondence, on her part, for more than eighteen years. 
 
 But while Cowper's wound quickly healed, and left 
 scarcely a scar, in his cousin's heart no such change took 
 place. " Neither time uor absence," says Southey, " dimin- 
 ished her attachment to the object of her first and only 
 love ; the poems which, while their intercourse continued, 
 he had transcribed for her as they were composed, she 
 carefully preserved during many years ; and then, for 
 reasons known only to herself, sent them in a sealed packet 
 to a lady, her particular friend, with directions not to be 
 opened till after her decease." 
 
 We shall find, as we proceed, other proofs of her cease- 
 less attachment, justifying, in a degree, the language in 
 which Miss Austm contrasts the feehngs of the two sexes : — 
 
 " We do not forget you, so soon as you forget iis. We 
 live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey iipon 
 us. But you have always a profession, pursuits, business
 
 EARLY MANHOOD. 16 
 
 of some sort or other, to take you back into the world 
 again, and continual occupation and change soon weaken 
 impressions. All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it 
 is not a very enviable one) is that of loving longest, when 
 existence or when hope is gone." * 
 
 The thought will naturally occur to many minds, how 
 different, and perhaps how far less unhappy, would Cowper's 
 life have proved, had this natural and blameless attachment 
 been allowed its ordinary course. 
 
 Yet we should be careful how we repine, either against 
 the decision of Theodora's father, or against the wise and 
 gracious decision of Him who was " leading the blind by a 
 way that he knew not." Painful as it must have been, and 
 harsh as it must have seemed, to separate cousins who so 
 dearly loved each other, it is quite possible that Mr. Ashley 
 Cowper had already seen abundant signs of that tendency 
 to melancholy which did, in fact, make his nephew's life 
 " one long disease." And besides this, the unsettled and 
 desultory cast of his character made his worldly prospects 
 most unpromising. Either way, the marriage would have 
 been a hazardous step for Theodora, and her father might 
 justly consider, that he best provided for her peace of mind 
 by positively forbidding the union. 
 
 As to the still more important question, of the pro- 
 vidential guidance of the poet's steps, no one, surely, can 
 be bUnd to facts so obvious. The separation of 1757 was 
 most painful, — of that there can be no doubt. But even 
 in the next year, we have seen that the pain of the loss 
 on his side had greatly subsided. No part of the after 
 sufferings of his Ufe can be traced to this cause. So far as 
 we can sunnise, he might, had he married Theodora, have 
 still suffered all the pains and terrors of 1763, and have 
 finally ended his days in a lunatic asylum. The kind pro- 
 vidence which watched over him, prepared for him, in ]Mrs. 
 Unwin, the most suitable and affectionate guardian and 
 companion that could possibly have been found. And, 
 after all, there remained that " perfect consummation and 
 
 * " Persuasion," p. 424.
 
 16 LIFE OF WILLIAM C'OV.'PER. 
 
 bliss, iu eternal and everlasting glory," whicli Avould make 
 all these circumstances " as a dream -when one awaketh, 
 and as a watch in the night." But we must return to 
 our narrative, and shall quickly close this portion of the 
 history. 
 
 His " friend torn from him, and his mistress lost," 
 Cowper at first deemed himself " a wanderer on a wild 
 unknown." But as weeks and months rolled on, he found, 
 almost of necessity, new companions and new pursuits. 
 He joined " The Nonsense Club," — a small society of 
 Westminster men, who dined together every Thursday. 
 With two of its members, Bonnell Thornton and Colman, 
 Cowper joined in producing " The Connoisseur," — a weekly 
 paper, which aspired to follow in the path of the " Spec- 
 tator" and the " Rambler." He also wrote some pieces in 
 the " St. James's Chronicle," and some in the " St. James's 
 Magazine." But amidst these lighter occupations, nothing 
 was done, or attempted, to secure for him a permanent 
 income and an honourable position in society. He him- 
 self tell us, that, drinking tea, about this time, at a lady's 
 house in King Street, Bloomsbury, when Thurlow was 
 present, so recently his fellow-clerk, he said to him, " Thur- 
 low, I am nobody, and shall always be nobody ; and you 
 will be Lord Chancellor. You shall provide for me when 
 you are." Thurlow smiled and said, " I svirely will." 
 In a letter dated the same year,* Cowper says : — 
 " If my resolution to be a great man was half so strong 
 as it is to despise the shame of being a little one, I should 
 not despair of a house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, with all its 
 appurtenances ; for there is nothing more certain, and I 
 could prove it by a thousand instances, than that every 
 man may be rich if he will. What is the industry of half 
 the industrious men in the world but avarice 1 and, call it 
 by which name you will, it almost always succeeds. But 
 this provokes me, that a covetous dog, who will work by 
 candlelight in a morning to get what he does not want, 
 shall be praised for his thriftiness, while a gentleman shall 
 be abused for submitting to his wants, rather than work 
 
 * Sept. 2, 1702.
 
 KARLY MANHOOD. 17 
 
 like an ass to relieve them. Did you ever in your life 
 kuow a man who was guitlcd in the general course of his 
 actions by anything but his natural temper ? And yet wc 
 blame each other's conduct as freely as if that temper was 
 the most tractalile beast in the world, and we had nothing 
 to do but to twitch the rein to the right or the left, and 
 go just as we are directed by others ! All this is nonsense, 
 and nothing better." 
 
 " Upon the whole, my dear Eowley, there is a degree 
 of poverty that has no disgrace belonging to it ; that de- 
 gree of it, I mean, in which a man enjoys clean linen and 
 good company ; and if I never sink below this degree of 
 it, I care not if I never rise above it." 
 
 Cowper was now in the 32d year of his age ; his little 
 patrimony was rapidly decreasing ; and the only hope 
 which remained to him was that which must originally 
 have decided his father in the choice of a profession. 
 That hope was at last fulfilled. The clerk of the journals 
 of the House of Lords died, and the office of reading clerk 
 anil clerk of the committees, which was of greater value, 
 was vacated by resignation. His relative, Major Cowper, 
 who claimed the appointment to these olliccs, " called 
 me," says Cowper, " out of my chambers, and having in- 
 vited me to take a turn with him in the garden, there 
 made me an offer of the two most profitable places ; in- 
 tending the other for his friend Mr. Arnold. Dazzled by 
 so splendid a proposal, and not immediately reflecting 
 upon my incapacity to execute a business of so public a 
 nature, I at once accepted it ; bvit at the same time, (such 
 was the will of Him whose hand was in the whole matter,) 
 seemed to receive a dagger in my heart. The wound was 
 given, and every moment added to the smart of it. All 
 the considerations, by which I endeavoured to compose my 
 mind to its former trancpiillity, did but torment me the 
 more ; proving miserable comforters and counsellors of no 
 value. I returned to my chambers thoughtful and un- 
 happy ; my countenance fell ; and my friend was asto- 
 nished, instead of that additional cheerfulness he might so 
 reasonably expect, to find an air of deep melancholy in all 
 I said or did. 
 
 c
 
 18 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 " Having been harassed in this manner by day and 
 night, for tlie sjiace of a week, perplexed between the appa- 
 rent folly of casting away the only visible chance I had of 
 being well provided for, and the impossibility of retaining 
 it, I determined at length to write a letter to my friend, 
 though he lodged in a manner at the next door, and we 
 generally spent the day together. I did so, and therein 
 begged him to accept my resignation, and to appoint Mr. 
 Arnold to the places he had given me, and permit me to 
 succeed Mr. Arnold. I was well aware of the disproportion 
 between the value of his appointment and mine ; but my 
 peace was gone ; pecuniary advantages were not equivalent 
 to what I had lost ; and I flattered myself, that the clerk- 
 ship of the journals would fall fairly and easily within the 
 scope of my abilities. Like a man in a fever, I thought a 
 change of posture would relieve my pain ; and, as the 
 event will show, was equally disappointed. At length I 
 earned my point, my friend, in this instance, preferring 
 the gratification of my desires to his own interest ; for 
 nothing could be so likely to bring a suspicion of bargain 
 and sale upon his nomination, which the Lords would not 
 have endured, as his appointment of so near a relative to 
 the least profitable office, while the most valuable was 
 allotted to a stranger. 
 
 " The matter being thus settled, something like a calm 
 took place in my mind. I was, indeed, not a little con- 
 cerned about my character ; being aware that it must 
 needs suffer by the strange appearance of my i^roceeding. 
 This, however, being but a small part of the anxiety I had 
 laboured under, was hardly felt when the rest was taken 
 off. I thought my path to an easy maintenance was now 
 plain and open, and for a day or two was tolerably cheerful. 
 But, behold, the storm was gathering all' the while ; and 
 the fury of it was not the less violent, for this gleam of 
 sunshine. 
 
 " In the beginning, a strong opposition to my friend's 
 right of nomination began to show itself. A poweiful 
 party was formed among the Lords to thwart it, in favour 
 of an old enemy of the family, though one much indebted 
 to its bounty ; and it appeared plain, that if wc succeeded
 
 EARLY MANHOOD. 19 
 
 at last, it would only be by figlitiiig our ground by inches. 
 Every advantage, I was told, would be sought for, and 
 eagei'ly seized, to disconcert us. I was bid to expect an 
 examination at the bar of the House, touching my suf- 
 ficiency for the post I had taken. Being necessarily ig- 
 norant of the nature of that business, it became expedient 
 that I should visit the office daily, in order to qualify my- 
 self for the strictest scrutiny. All the horror of my fears 
 and perplexities now returned. A thunderbolt would have 
 been as welcome to me as this intelligence. I knew, to de- 
 monstration, that upon these terms the clerkship of the 
 journals was no place for me. To require my attendance 
 at the bar of the House, that I might there publicly entitle 
 myself to the office, was, in effisct, to exclude mc from it. 
 In the mean time, the interest of my friend, the honour of 
 his choice, my own reputation and circumstances, all 
 urged me forward ; all pressed me to undertake that 
 which I saw to be impracticable. They whose spirits are 
 formed like mine, to whom a public exhilntion of them- 
 selves, on any occasion, is mortal poison, may have some 
 idea of the horrors of my situation ; others can have none. 
 " ]My continual misery at length brought on a nervous 
 fever ; quiet forsook me by day, and peace by night ; a 
 finger raised against me was more than I could stand 
 against. In this posture of mind I attended regularly at 
 the office ; where, instead of a soul upon the ;'ack, the 
 most active spirits were essentially necessary for my pui*- 
 iwse. I expected no assistance from any body there, all 
 the inferior clerks being under the influence of my 02>i)0- 
 nent ; and accordingly I received none. The journal-books 
 were, indeed, thrown open to me ; a thing which could not 
 be refused ; and from which, perhaps, a man in liealth, and 
 with a head turned to business, might have gained all the 
 information he wanted : but it was not so with me. I read 
 without perception, and was so distressed, that had every 
 clerk in the office been my friend, it could have availed me 
 little ; for I was not in a condition to receive instruction, 
 much less to elicit it out of manuscripts, withuut direction. 
 Many months went over me thus employed ; constant in 
 the use of means, despairing as to the issue.
 
 20 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 " The feelings of a man, when he arrives at the place of 
 execution, are probably much like mine every time I set 
 my foot in the ofBcc, which was every day, for naore than 
 half a year together. At length the vacation being pretty 
 far advanced, I made shift to get into the country, and 
 repaired to Margate." 
 
 About the beginning of October he was again required 
 to attend the office, and jirepare for what was called " the 
 push." But no sooner had he resumed, or seemed to resume, 
 his inefTectual labours, — labours which were ineffectual only 
 because he was possessed with the persuasion that they neces- 
 sarily must be so, — than his nervous excitability returned. 
 
 Again, he says, " I felt myself pressed by necessity on 
 either side, with nothing but despair in prospect. To this 
 dilemma was I reduced, — either to keep possession of the 
 office to the last extremity, and by so doing expose myself 
 to a public rejection for insufficiency, (for the little know- 
 ledge I had acquired would have quite forsaken me at the 
 bar of the House) ; or else to fling it up at once, and by 
 this means run the hazard of ruining my benefactor's right 
 of appointment, by bringing his discretion into question. 
 In this situation, such a fit of passion has sometimes 
 seized me, when alone in my chambers, that I have cried 
 out aloud, and cursed the hour of my birth : lifting up my 
 eyes to heaven, at the same time, not as a suppliant, but 
 in the hellish spirit of rancorous reproach and blasphemy 
 against my IMaker. A thought would sometimes come 
 across my mind, that my sins had perhaps brought this 
 distress upon me, — that the hand of divine vengeance was 
 in it ; but in the pride of my heart I presently acquitted 
 myself, and thereby implicitly charged God with injustice, 
 saying, ' What sins have I committed to deserve this 1 ' 
 
 " I saw plainly that God alone could deliver me ; but 
 was firmly persuaded that he would not, and, therefore, 
 omitted to ask it. Indeed, at his hands I would not ; but 
 as Saul sought to the witch, so did I to the physician, Dr. 
 Hcberdcn ; and was as diligent in the use of drugs as if 
 tliey would have healed my wounded spirit, or have made 
 the rough places plain before me. I made, indeed, one 
 effort of a devotional kind ; for having found a prayer or
 
 EARLY MANHOOD. 21 
 
 two in that repository of self-riglitcousness and pliarisaical 
 lumber, ' The Whole Duty of I\lan,' I said them a few 
 nights, l)ut with so little expectation of prevaihng that 
 way, that I soou laid aside the book, and with it all thoughts 
 of God and hopes of a remedy." 
 
 This state of horror lasted for several days, and ended, 
 as }night have been expeeted, in an attempt to strangle 
 himself. This decided the question. 
 
 "As soon as my relative arrived, I pointed to the 
 broken garter, v>rhich lay in the middle of the room ; and 
 apprized him also of the attempt I had been making. His 
 words were, ' My dear Mr. Cowper, yon terrify me ! To 
 be snre you cannot hold the office at tliis rate, — where is 
 the deputation V I gave him the key of the drawer where 
 it was deposited ; and his business requiring his imme- 
 diate attendance, he took it away with him ; and thus 
 ended all my connexion with the Parliament-office." 
 
 But now the Tempter, having been disappointed in one 
 method of approach, immediately tried another. 
 
 " To this moment I had felt no concern of a spiritual 
 kind. Ignorant of original sin, insensible of the guilt of 
 actual transgression, I understood neither the law nor the 
 gospel ; the condemning nature of the one, nor the re- 
 storing mercies of the other. I was as much unacquainted 
 with Christ, in all his saving offices, as if his blessed name 
 had never reached me. Now, therefore, a new scene opened 
 tipon me. Conviction of sin took place, especially of that 
 just committed ; the meanness of it, as well as its atrocity, 
 was exhibited to me in colours so inconceivably strong, 
 that I despised myself, with a contempt not to be imagined 
 or expressed, for having attempted it. This sense of it 
 secured me from the repetition of a crime, which I could 
 not now reflect on without abhorrence. 
 
 " Before I arose from bed, it was suggested to me that 
 there was nothing wanted but miirder, to fill up the mea- 
 sure of my iniquities ; and that, though I had failed in my 
 design, yet I had all the guilt of that crime to answer for. 
 • A sense of God's wrath, and a deep despair of escaping it, 
 instantly succeeded. The fear of death became much more 
 prevalent in mc than ever the desire of it liad been."
 
 22 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 "My sins were now set in array before me. I began to 
 ace and feel that I ]iad lived without God in the world. 
 As I walked to and fro in my chamber, I said within my- 
 self, ' There never was so abandoned a wretch ; so great a 
 si7iner.' All my worldly sorrows seemed as though they 
 had never been ; the terrors of my mind which succeeded 
 them seemed so great, and so much more afflicting. One 
 moment I thouglit myself shut out from mercy, by one 
 chapter ; and the next, by another. The sword of the 
 Sjiirit seemed to guard the Tree of Life from my touch, 
 and to flame against me in every avenue by which I at- 
 tempted to approach it. I particularly remember that the 
 parable of the barren fig-tree was to me an inconceivable 
 source of anguish ; I applied it to myself, with a strong 
 persuasion in my mind, that when the Saviour pronounced 
 a curse upon it he had me in his eye ; and pointed that 
 curse directly at me." 
 
 " While I traversed the apartment, in the most horrible 
 dismay of soul, expecting every moment that the earth 
 would open her mouth and swallow me ; my conscience 
 scaring me, the avenger of blood pursuing me, and the city 
 of refuge out of reach and out of sight ; a strange and hor- 
 rible darkness fell upon me. If it were possible that a 
 heavy blow could light on the brain, without touching the 
 skull, such was the sensation I felt. I clapped my hand to 
 my forehead, and cried aloud, through the pain it gave me. 
 At every stroke iny thoughts and expressions became more 
 wild and indistinct ; all that remained clear was the sense 
 of sin, and the expectation of punishment. These kept 
 undisturljcd possession all through my illness, without in- 
 terruption or abatement. 
 
 " My brother instantly perceived the change, and con- 
 sulted with my friends on the best manner to dispose of 
 me. It was agreed among them, that I should be carried 
 to St. Alban's, where Dr. Cotton kept a house for the re- 
 ception of such patients, and with whom I was kno'mi to 
 have a slight acquaintance. Xot only his skill as a phy- 
 sician recommended him to their choice, but his well- 
 known humanity and sweetness of temper. It will be proper 
 to draw a veil over the secrets of my prison-house."
 
 KECOVERY A^^D RETIUEMENT. 23 
 
 III. 
 
 RECOVERY AND RETIREMENT. 
 
 A.D. 1704—1707. 
 
 Dreadful was Cowpcr's condition now. "Conviction of 
 sin, and expectation of instant judgment, never left me, 
 from the 7th of December, 17C3, until the middle of July 
 following. Tlie accuser of the brethren," he tells us, " ever 
 busy with him, night and day, brought to his recollection 
 in dreams his long-forgotten sins, and charged upon his 
 conscience things of an indifferent nature as atrocious 
 crimes. All that passed in this long interval of eight 
 months may be classed under two heads— conviction of 
 sin, and despair of mercy." 
 
 But months passed away, and the sentence of eternal 
 condemnation seemed still deferred ; and thus one of the 
 tempter's weapons began to lose its edge. 
 
 " I began," says Cowper, " to persuade myself that while 
 the execution of the sentence was deferred, it would be for 
 my interest to indulge a less horrible train of ideas than I 
 had been accustomed to dwell upon. I entered into con- 
 versation with the doctor, laughed at his stories, and told 
 him some of my own to match them ; still, however, carry- 
 ing a sentence of irrevocable doom in my heart." 
 
 In the course of a few weeks, his brother, hearing from 
 Dr. Cotton the apparent amendment, came from Cambridge 
 to visit him. His own sensations at this meeting he dc- 
 acribes as painfully mingled with sorrow for his own reme- 
 diless condition, and envy of his brother's happiness : — 
 
 "As soon as we were left alone he asked me how I 
 found myself; I answered, 'As much better as despair 
 can make me.' We went together into the garden. Here, 
 on expressing a settled assurance of sudden judgment, he
 
 24 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 protested to me that it was all a delusion ; and protested 
 so strongly that I could not help gi'V'ing some attention to 
 him. I burst into tears, and cried out, 'If it be a delusion, 
 then am I the happiest of beings.' Something like a ray 
 of hope was shot into my heart, but still I was afraid to 
 indulge it. We dined together, and I spent the afternoon 
 in a more cheerful manner. Something seemed to whisper 
 to me every moment, ' Still there is mercy.' 
 
 " Even after he left me, this change of sentiment 
 gathered ground continually ; yet my mind was in such a 
 fluctuating state, that I can only call it a vague presage of 
 better things at hand, without being able to assign a reason 
 for it. The servant observed a sudden alteration in me for 
 the better ; and the man, whom I have ever since retained 
 in my service, expressed great joy on the occasion. 
 
 "I went to bed and slept well. In the morning I 
 dreamed that th-e sweetest boy I ever saw came dancing 
 up to my bedside ; he seemed just out of leading-strings, 
 yet I took particular notice of the firmness and steadiness 
 of his tread. The sight affected me with pleasure, and 
 served at least to harmonise my spirits ; so that I awoke 
 for the first time with a sensation of dehght on my mind. 
 Still, hoYv'ever, I knew not where to look for the establish- 
 ment of the comfoi't I felt. Mj joy was as much a mystery 
 to myself as to those about me. The blessed God was 
 preparing me for the clearer light of his countenance by 
 this first dawning of his light upon me." 
 
 That he could feel the force of argument, and that he 
 could weep, were evident symptoms of amendment. Indeed, 
 he dated his recovery from his brother's visit ; saying, in a 
 letter wi-itten before the Memoir, " though he only staid one ' 
 day with me, his company served to put to flight a thousand 
 deliriums and delusions which I still laboured under, and 
 the next morning I found myself a new creature." Some short 
 time before this, walking in the garden, he had found upon 
 a s^at there a Bible, which very probably had ))een laid in his 
 way. He opened it upon the chapter in which Lazarus is 
 raised from the dead, and he saw " so much benevolence, 
 and mercy, and goodness, and sympathy with miserable 
 man in our Saviour's conduct," that ho was moved almost
 
 RECOVERY AND RETIREJIEXT. 25 
 
 to tears ; " little thinking," he says, " that it was an exact 
 type of the mercy which Jesus was on the point of extend- 
 ing towards myself. I sighed, and said, ' Oh, that I had 
 not rejected so good a Redeemer, — that I had not forfeited 
 all his favours ! ' Thus was my heart softened, though not 
 yet enlightened. I closed the book, without intending to 
 open it again." 
 
 But now, after the dream described above, he says : — 
 "Having risen with somewhat of a more cheerful feeling, 
 I repaired to mj room, where breakfast waited for me. 
 While I sat at table, I found the cloud of horror which had 
 so long hung over me was every moment passing away ; 
 and every moment came fraught with hope. I was con- 
 tinually more and more persuaded that I was not utterly 
 doomed to destruction. The way of salvation was still, 
 however, hid from my eyes, nor did I see it at all cleaier 
 than before my illness. I only thought that if it would 
 please God to spare me, I would lead a better life ; and that 
 I would yet escape hell if a religious obseiwance of my duty 
 would secure me from it. Thus may the terror of the Lord 
 make a Pharisee ; but only the sweet voice of mercy in the 
 gospel can make a Christian. 
 
 "But the happy period which was to shake off my 
 fetters, and afford me a clear opening of the free mercy of 
 God in Christ Jesus, was now arrived. I flung myself into 
 a chair near the window, and, seeing a Bible there, ventured 
 once more to apply to it for comfort and instruction. Tlie 
 first verse I saw was the twenty-fifth of the third chapter 
 of Eomaus : ' Whom God hath set forth to be a propitia- 
 tion through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness 
 for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbear- 
 ance of God.' 
 
 "Immediately I received strength to believe, and the 
 fuU beams of the Sun of Righteousness shone upon me. I 
 saw the sufficiency of the atonement He had made, my 
 pardon sealed in His blood, and aU the fiUness and com- 
 pletene.ss of His justification. In a moment I believed, 
 and received the gospel. Whatever my friend • Madan had 
 said to me, so long before, revived in all its clearness, with 
 ' demonstration of the Spirit and with power.' Unless the
 
 26 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Almighty arm had been under me I think I should have 
 died with gratitude and joy. IMy eyes filled with tears, and 
 my voice choked with transport, I could only look up to 
 heaven in silent fear, overwhelmed with love and wonder." 
 But the work of the Holy Spirit is best described in his 
 own words: "it was 'joy unspeakable, and full of glory.' 
 Thus was my heavenly Father in Christ Jesus pleased to 
 give me the full assurance of faith, and out of a stony, 
 unbeheving heart, to raise up a child unto Abraham. How 
 glad should I now have been to have spent every moment 
 in prayer and thanksginng ! 
 
 "I lost no opjiortunity of repairing to a throne of 
 grace ; but flew to it with an earnestness irresistible, and 
 never to be satisfied. Could I help it ] Could I do other- 
 wise than love and rejoice in my reconciled Father in 
 Christ Jesus ? Tlie Lord had enlarged my heart, and I ran 
 in the way of His commandments. For many succeeding 
 weeks tears were ready to flow if I did but speak of the 
 Gospel, or mention the name of Jesus. To rejoice day and 
 night was all my em})loyment. Too happy to sleep much, 
 I thought it was lost time that was spent in slumber. Oh 
 that the ardour of my first love had continued ! But I 
 have known many a lifeless and unhallowed hour since ; 
 long intervals of darkness, interrupted by short returns of 
 peace and joy in believing. 
 
 " My physician, ever watchful and apprehensive for my 
 welfare, was now alarmed, lest the sudden transition from 
 des2>air to joy should terminate in a fatal frenzy. But 
 ' the Lord was my strength and my song, and was become 
 my salvation.' I said, ' I shall not die, but live, and declare 
 the works of the Lord ; he has chastened me sore, but not 
 given me over unto death. give thanks unto the Lord, 
 for his mercy endureth for ever ! ' In a short time Dr. C. 
 became satisfied, and acquiesced in the soundness of my 
 cure ; and much sweet communion I had with him con- 
 cerning the things of our salvation." 
 
 And now Cowpcr could appreciate the value of his kind 
 physician's sympathetic care ; and perceive in his position 
 one proof of his heavenly Father's guidance. He say.s : — ■
 
 RECOVERY AND RETIREMENT. 27 
 
 " I reckon it one instance of the providence which has 
 attended me throughout this whole event, tliat instead of 
 being delivered into the hands of one of the London phy- 
 sicians — who were so much nearer tliat I wonder I was not — 
 I was carried to Doctor Cotton. I was not only treated by 
 him with the greatest tenderness while I was ill, and at- 
 tended with the utmost diligence, but when my reason was 
 restored to me, and I had so much need of a religious 
 friend to converse with, to whom I could open my mind on 
 the subject without reserve, I could hardly have found a 
 fitter person for the purpose. INIy eagerness and anxiety to 
 settle my opinions upon that long-neglected point, made it 
 necessary that, while my mind was yet weak and my spirits 
 uncertain, I should have some assistance. The doctor was 
 as ready to administer relief to me in this article likewise, 
 and as well qualified to do it, as in that which was more 
 immediately his province. How many physicians would 
 have thought this an irregular appetite, ami a symptom 
 of remaining madness ! But if it were so, my friend was 
 as mad as myself, and it was well for me that he was so." 
 
 Cowper remained with Dr. Cotton for several months 
 after his recovery. Resuming the use of his pen, he now 
 wrote the "Happy Change," grounded on the passage in 
 the Apocalypse, " Behold, I make all things new," Groat 
 is the contrast between this and all his former produc- 
 tions : — 
 
 " How Llcst thy eroature is, Got!, 
 Wlien with a single eye 
 He views the lustre of thy word, 
 The day spring from on high ! 
 
 Tlirough all the storms that veil the skies, 
 
 And frown on earthly things, 
 The Sun of Righteousness he eyes, 
 
 With healing on his wings. 
 
 Struck by that hglit, the human lieart, 
 
 A barren soil no more. 
 Sends the sweet smell of grace abroad, 
 
 Where serpents lurk'd before.
 
 28 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Tlie soul, a dreary jirovince once 
 
 Of Satan's dark domain, 
 Feels a new empire form'd within, 
 
 And owns a heavenly reign. 
 
 The glorious orb, whose golden heams 
 
 The fruitful year control, 
 Since first, obedient to thy word, 
 
 He started from the goal. 
 
 Has cheer'd the nations with the joys 
 
 His orient rays impart ; 
 But, Jesus, 'tis thy hght alone 
 
 Can shine upon the heart." 
 
 The greatest of all changes had now passed uj^on Cow- 
 per ; and one of its most natural and immediate results 
 was, that London, the scene of all his hopes and joys, his 
 fears and sorrows, for more tliau a dozen years past, now 
 became hateful to him. He says : — 
 
 '' I now employed my brother to seek out an abode for 
 me in the neighbourhood of Cambridge, being determined, 
 by the Lord's leave, to see London, the scene of my former 
 abominations, no more. I had still one place of prefer- 
 ment left, which seemed to bind me under the necessity of 
 returning thither again. But I resolved to break the 
 bond, chiefly because my peace of conscience was in ques- 
 tion. I held for some years the office of Commissioner of 
 Bankrupts, worth about 60^. per annum. Conscious of my 
 ignorance of the law, I could not take the accustomed 
 oath, and resigned it; thereby releasing myself from an 
 occasion of great sin, and from every obhgation to return 
 to London." 
 
 And now occurs an incident in this remarkable histoiy 
 which has excited little remark, but which deserves to be 
 pondered over. His l)rother John, Cowper tells us, " made 
 many unsuccessful attempts to procure me a lodging near 
 him." IVIost strange ! seeing that Cambridge and its vicinity 
 abounded in houses let in lodgings, and having accommo- 
 dation of every class, and housekeepers of every kind. 
 Our first supposition naturally is, that his brother did not 
 reallii tn's/t t« find liini a lodging so near to liimsclf. But
 
 RECOVERY AXD RETIREMENT. 29 
 
 this liy]^iothe.sis is not tenable. John Cowi)er showed the 
 greatest aiiection and sjanpathy, and must have wished to 
 watch over his future progress. Cowper, too, was now " in 
 perfect health ;" he was of shy and retiring hal)its, and hi.s 
 pursuits quiet and literary. There could 1 le no reason why 
 John Cowper could desire his brother to be at a distance 
 from him, still less at such a distance as to compel a weekly 
 journey. Yet we arc assured that in Cambridge, which 
 is a town full of lodgings, John Cowper could not find one 
 that would suit ; while in Huntingdon — fourteen miles off 
 — he found accommodation without difficulty. 
 
 Tlie circumstance would be altogether unaccountable, 
 but for the hidden reason — hidden at the time to both 
 brothers — which immediately afterwards appears. At Cam- 
 bridge, at that moment, we know not that there existed one 
 person qualified to aid and direct him in the journey to the 
 lieavenly city, upon which he had now fully entered. Even 
 his brother, kind and aftectiouate as he was, could not 
 luidei'stand his religious views. But at Huntingdon dwelt, 
 in utter ignorance of him and his circumstances, that 
 remarkable indiN-idual, prepared especially for this work, 
 who was to be his prop and stay — his affectionate nurse 
 and beloved friend— for more than thirty years of his life. 
 A woman so singularly fitted for this laborious and pecu- 
 liar duty could have been found by no human search. But 
 He who " ordereth all things after the counsel of his own 
 will" — He who did not permit Jonah to be cast into the 
 sea until he had " prepai-ed " and brought to the ship's side 
 a great fish ready to receive him — He made it impossible 
 for Cowper's brother to find lodgings in Cambridge, showed 
 him suitable apartments in Huntingdon, and there, in the 
 course of eight or ten weeks, gave to Cowper himself the 
 friendship of that admirable woman, of whom, a quarter of 
 a century after, he speaks as "a lady who has sui)plied to 
 me the place of my own mother — my own invaluable 
 mother — for these six-and-twenty years ;" and to whom he 
 then addressed these touching lines : — 
 
 " jMary I I want a lyre with other strings ; 
 Such aid from heaven, as some have feign'd they drew !
 
 30 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new, 
 And undebased by praise of meaner things ! 
 That ere through age or woe I shed my flings 
 I may record thy worth, with honour due, 
 In verse as musical as thou art true, — 
 Verse that immortalizes whom it sings ! 
 
 But tliou hast little need. There is a book, 
 By seraphs writ, with beams of heavenly light, 
 On which the eyes of God not rarely look ; 
 A chronicle of actions, just and bright ! 
 
 There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, 
 
 And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine." 
 
 Probably the whole range of Christian biography, if 
 carefully searched, would not produce an instance more 
 worthy of wondering thankfulness than this remarkable 
 providence, l)y which Cowper was conducted to the abode 
 of the faitliful friend who had been prepared for him. 
 
 He left Dr. Cotton's on the 17th of June, 17G5, and 
 proceeded to Ca.mbridge. Remaining there four days, ou 
 Saturday, the 22d, his brother accompanied him to Hunting- 
 don, introduced him to his new abode, and then left him. 
 Very naturally his spirits began to sink, and he felt " like a 
 traveller in the midst of an inhospitable desert, without a 
 friend to comfort or a guide to direct him." He then 
 continues : — 
 
 " I walked forth, towards the close of the day, in this 
 melancholy frame of mind, and, having wandered about a 
 mile from the town, I found my heart, at length, so power- 
 fully drawn towards the Lord, that, having gained a retired 
 and secret nook in the corner of a field, I kneeled down 
 under a bank, and poured forth my complaints before him. 
 It pleased my Saviour to hear me, in that this oppression 
 was taken off, and I was enabled to trust in him that 
 caretli for the stranger, to roll my burden upon him, and 
 to rest assured that, wheresoever he might cast my lot, 
 the («od of all consolation would still be with me. But 
 this was not all. Ho did for me more than either I had 
 asked or thought. 
 
 " Tlie next day I went to church, for the first time after
 
 RECOVERY AXD RETIREMENT. 31 
 
 my recovery. Throughout the whole sen-ice I had much 
 to do to restrain my emotions, so fully did 1 see the 
 beauty and the glory of the Lord. My heart was full of 
 love to all the congregation, especially to them in whom I 
 observed an air of sober attention. A grave and sober 
 person sat in the pew with me ; him I have since seen, 
 and often conversed with, and have found him a pious 
 man, and a true servant of the blessed Redeemer. While 
 he was singing the psalm I looked at him, and, observing 
 him intent on liis holy employment, I could not help 
 saying in my heart, with mucli emotion, ' Bless you, for 
 praising him whom my soul loveth !' 
 
 " Such was the goodness of the Lord to me, that he 
 gave me 'the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of 
 praise for the spirit of heaviness ;' and though my voice 
 Avas silent, being stopped by the intenseness of what I 
 felt, yet my soul sung within me, and even leapt for joy. 
 And when the Gospel for the day was read, the sound of it 
 was more than I could well support. Oh, what a word is 
 the word of God, when the Spirit quickens us to receive it, 
 and gives the hearing car and the understanding heart ! 
 The harmony of heaven is in it, and discovers its author. 
 The parable of the prodigal sou was the portion. I saw 
 myself iu that glass so clearly, and the loving-kindness of 
 my slighted and forgotten Lord, that the whole scene was 
 realised to me, and acted over in my heart. 
 
 " I went immediately after church to the place where I 
 had prayed the day before, and found the relief I had 
 there received was but the earnest of a richer blessing. 
 How shall I express what the Lord did for me, except by 
 saying that he made all his goodness to pass before me ? 
 I seemed to speak to him face to face, as a man con- 
 versing with his friend, except that my speech was only in 
 tears of joy, and groanings which cannot be uttered. I 
 could say, indeed, with Jacob, not ' how dreadful,' but 
 how lovely ' is this place ! This is none other than the 
 house of God.' " 
 
 He now, being in a position of entire leisure, began to 
 renew his intercourse with the few friends that remained
 
 32 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 to him. To liis cousin Harriet, uow Lady Hesketli, one of 
 his first letters was directed, and we give it entire : — 
 
 " Huiiihif/don, Julu 1, 17G5. 
 " My dear Lady Heskctb, — Since the visit you were so 
 kind to pay me in the Temple (the only time I ever saw 
 you without pleasure), what have I not suffered ? And 
 since it has pleased God to restore me to the use of my 
 reason, what have I not enjoyed ? You know, by experi- 
 ence, how pleasant it is to feel the first approaches of 
 health after a fever, — but, oh ! the fever of the brain ! 
 To feel the quenching of that fire is, indeed, a blessing, 
 Avhich I think it impossible to receive without the most 
 consummate gratitude. Terrible as this chastisement is, 
 I acknowledge in it the hand of an infinite justice ; nor is 
 it at all more difficult for me to perceive in it the hand of 
 an infinite mercy, likewise : when I consider the effect it 
 has had upon me, I am exceedingly thankful for it, and, 
 without hypocrisy, esteem it the greatest blessing, next to 
 life itself, I ever received from the divine bounty. I pray 
 God that I may ever retain this sense of it, and then I am 
 sure I shall continue to be, as I am at present, really 
 happy. 
 
 " I write thus to you, that you may not think me a 
 forlorn and wretched creature ; which you might Ijc apt to 
 do, considering my very distant removal from every friend 
 I have in the world : a circumstance which, before this 
 event bcfel me, would undoubtedly have made me so ; but 
 my affliction has taught me a road to happiness, which, 
 without it, I should never have found ; and I know, and 
 have experience of it every day, that the mercy of God, 
 to him who believes himself the object of it, is more 
 than sufficient to compensate for the loss of every other 
 blessing. 
 
 "You may now inform all those whom you think really 
 interested in my welfare, that they have no need to be 
 apprehensive on the score of my happiness at present. 
 And you yourself will believe that my happiness is no 
 dream, because I have told you the foundation on which
 
 RECOVERY AND RETIREMEOT. 33 
 
 it is built. What I have written would appear like enthu- 
 siasm to many, for we arc apt to give that name to every 
 warm aiFection of the mind in others, which we have not 
 experienced in ourselves ; but to you, who have so much 
 to be thankful for, and a temper inclined to gratitude, it 
 will not appear so. 
 
 "I beg you will give my love to Sir Thomas, and 
 believe that I am obliged to you both for inquiring after 
 me at St. Alban's. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 Receiving an immediate reply, Cowper writes, three days 
 afterwards, more at length : — 
 
 ^'■Huntingdon, Jiihj 4, 17C5. 
 
 "Being just emerged from the Ousc, I sit down to 
 thank you, my dear cousin, for your friendly and comfort- 
 able letter. What could you think of my unaccountable 
 behaviour to you in that visit I mentioned in my 
 last ? I remember I neither spoke to you nor looked at 
 you. The solution of the mystery, indeed, followed soon 
 after, but, at the time, it must have been inexplicable. 
 The uproar within was even then begun, and my silence 
 was only the sulkiness of a thunder-storm before it opens. 
 I am glad, however, that the only instance in which I 
 knew not how to value your company was when I was not 
 in my senses. It was the first of the kind, and I trust in 
 God it will be the last. 
 
 " How naturally does affliction make us Christians ! 
 and how impossible is it when all human help is vain, and 
 the whole earth too poor and trifling to furnish us with 
 one moment's peace, — how impossible is it then to avoid 
 looking at the Gospel ! It gives me some concern, though 
 at the same time it increases my gratitude, to reflect that 
 a convert made in Bedlam is more likely to be a stumbling- 
 block to others than to advance their faith. But, if it has 
 that effect upon any, it is owing to their reasoning amiss, 
 and drawing their conclusions from false premises. He 
 who can ascribe an amendment of life and manners, and a 
 reformation of the heart itself, to madness, is guilty of an 
 
 D
 
 34 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 absurdity that, in any other case, would fasten the imi)u- 
 tation of madness upon himself; for, by so doing, he 
 ascribes a reasonable effect to an unreasonable cause, and 
 a positive effect to a negative. But when Christianity 
 only is to be sacrificed, he that stabs deepest is always the 
 Avisest man. You, my dear cousin, yourself, will be apt to 
 think I carry the matter too far, and that, in the present 
 warmth of my heart, I make too ample a concession in 
 saying that I am only now a convert. You think I always 
 believed — and I thought so too — but you were deceived, 
 and so was I. I called myself, indeed, a Christian, but he 
 who knows my heart knows that I never did a right thing, 
 nor abstained from a wrong one, because I was so. But, if 
 I did either, it was under the influence of some other 
 motive. And it is such seeming Christians, such pre- 
 tending believers, that do most mischief to the cause, and 
 furnish the strongest arguments to siipport the infidelity 
 of its enemies : unless profession and conduct go together, 
 the man's life is a lie, and the validity of what he i^ro- 
 fesses itself is called in question. The difference between 
 a Christian and an unbeUevcr would be so striking, if the 
 treacherous allies of the church would go OA'er at once to 
 the other side, that I am satisfied religion would be no 
 loser by the bargain. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " My dear cousin, you know not half the deliverances I 
 have received ; my brother is the only one in the family 
 who does. My recovery is, indeed, a signal one ; but a 
 greater, if possible, went before it. My future life must 
 express my thankfulness, for by words I cannot do it. 
 " I pray God to bless you, and my friend Sir Thomas. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 «W. C." 
 
 This correspondence, once set on foot, was maintained 
 for some time with great A-igour. Cowper, having entire 
 leisure, naturally found it an agreeable employment to 
 write, once or twice a-week, to so near and dear a relative. 
 In September he thus introduces Lady Hesketh to the 
 Unwins : —
 
 RECOVERY AND RETIREMENT. 35 
 
 " Hiiiitliigdoii, Se2)t. 1-i, 1705. 
 " My dear Cousin, — The longer I live here the better I 
 like the jilace, and the people who belong to it. I am upon 
 very good terms with no less than five families, besides 
 two or three odd scrambling fellows like myself. The last 
 acquaintance I made here is with the race of the Unwins, 
 consisting of father and mother, son and .daughter, the 
 most comfortable, social folks, you ever knew. The son is 
 about twenty-one years of age, one of the most unreserved 
 and amiable young men I ever conversed with. He is not 
 yet arrived at that time of life when suspicion recom- 
 mends itself to us in the form of wisdom, and sets everj-- 
 thiug but our own dear selves at an immeasurable distance 
 from our esteem and confidence. Consequently, he is 
 known almost as soon as seen, and, having nothing in his 
 heart that makes it necessary for him to keep it barred 
 and bolted, opens it to the perusal even of a stranger. 
 The father is a clergyman, and the son is destined for 
 orders. The design, however, is quite his own, proceeding 
 merely from his being, and having always been, sincere in 
 his belief and love of the Gospel. Another acquaintance I 
 have lately made is with a Mr. Nicholson, a north-country 
 divine, very poor, but very good, and very happy. He 
 reads prayers here twice a-day all the year round, and 
 travels on foot to serve two churches every Sunday through 
 the year, his journey out and home again being sixteen 
 miles. I supped with him last night. He gave me bread 
 and cheese, and a black jug of ale of his own brewing, and, 
 doubtless, brewed by his own hands. Another of my 
 
 acquaintance is Mr. , a thin, tall old man, and as good 
 
 as he is thin. He drinks nothing but water, and cats no 
 flesh, partly (I believe) from a religious scruple (for he is 
 very rehgious) and partly in the spirit of a valetudinarian. 
 He is to be met with every morning of his life, at about 
 six o'clock, at a fountain of very fine water, about a mile 
 from the town, wliich is reckoneel extremely like the 
 Bristol spring. Being both early risers, and the only early 
 walkers in the place, we soon became acquainted. His 
 great piety can be equalled by nothing but his gi-eat regu- 
 larity ; for he is the most perfect timepiece in the world.
 
 36 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 I have received a visit, likewise, from Mr. . He is 
 
 very much a gentleman — well read, and sensible. I am 
 persuaded, in short, that if I had had the choice of all 
 England where to fix my abode, I could not have chosen 
 better for myself, and most likely I should not have chosen 
 so well. 
 
 "You say, you hope it is not necessary for salvation 
 to undergo the same afflictions that I have undergone. 
 No, my dear cousin, God deals with his children as a 
 merciful father ; he does not, as he himself tells us, afflict 
 willingly the sons of men. Doubtless there are many 
 who, having been placed by his good providence out of the 
 reach of any great evil and the influence of bad example, 
 have, from their very infancy, been partakers of the grace 
 of his Holy Spirit, in sucli a manner as never to have 
 allowed themselves in any grievous offence against him. 
 May you love him more and more, day by day ; as every 
 clay, while you think upon him, you will find him more 
 worthy of your love ; and may you be finally accepted by 
 him for his sake, whose intercession for all his faithful 
 servants cannot but prevail ! 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 " ^Y. c." 
 
 And again, a month later : — 
 
 " Himtbicidon, Oct. 1ft, 17G5. 
 
 " I wish you joy, my dear cousin, of being safely arrived 
 in port from the storms of Southampton. For my own 
 part, who am but as a Thames wherry in a world full of 
 tempest and commotion, I know so well the value of the 
 creek I have put into, and the snugness it affords me, that 
 I have a sensible sympathy with you in the jileasure you 
 find in being once more blown to Droxford. I know 
 enough of ]\Iiss Morley to send her my comj^liments, to 
 wliich if I had never seen her, her affection for you would 
 sufficiently entitle her. If I neglected to do it sooner, it is 
 only because I am naturally apt to neglect what I ought to 
 do ; and if I was as genteel as I am negligent, I sliould be 
 • the most delightful creature in the universe. I am glad 
 you think so favourably of my Huntingdon acquaintance ;
 
 BECOVERY AND RETIREMENT. S7 
 
 tliey arc, indeed, a nice set of folks, and suit me exactly. 
 I should have been more particular in my account of Miss 
 Unwin, if I had had materials for a minute description. 
 She is about eighteen years of age, rather handsome and 
 genteel. In her mother's company she says little ; not 
 because her mother requires it of her, but because she 
 seems glad of that excuse for not talking, being somewhat 
 inclined to bashfulness. There is the most remarkable 
 cordiality between all the pai-ts of the family, and the 
 mother and daughter seem to doat upon each other. The 
 first time I went to the house I was introduced to the 
 daughter alone, and sat with her near half-an-hour before 
 her brother came in, who had appointed me to call upon 
 him. Talking is necessary in a iete-a-tete, to distinguish 
 the persons of the drama from the chairs they sit on : 
 accordingly, she talked a great deal, and extremely well ; 
 and, like the rest of the family, behaved with as much ease 
 and address as if we had been old acquaintance. She 
 resembles her mother in her great piety, who is one of the 
 most remarkable instances of it I have ever seen. They 
 are altogether the eheerfullcst and most engaging family- 
 piece it is possible to conceive. Since I wrote the above, 
 I met Mrs. Unwin in the street, and went home with her. 
 She and I walked together near two hours in the garden, 
 and had a conversation which did me more good than I 
 should have received from an audience of the first prince 
 in Europe. That woman is a blessing to me, and I never 
 see her without being the better for her company. I am 
 treated in the family as if I was a near relation, and have 
 been repeatedly invited to call upon them at all times. 
 You know what a shy fellow I am ; I cannot prevail with 
 myself to make so much use of this privilege as I am sure 
 they intend I should : but, perhaps, this awkwardness will 
 wear oif hereafter. It was my earnest rcciuest, before I 
 left St. Alban's, that, wherever it might please Providence 
 to dispose of me, I might meet with such an acquaintance 
 as I find in ]\Irs. Unwin. How happy it is to believe, with 
 a stedfast assurance, tliat our petitions are heard, even 
 while we are making them ! and how delightful to meet 
 with a proof of it in the eUcctual and actual grant of
 
 38 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 them ! Sui'ely it is a gracious finishiag given to those 
 means which the Almighty has been pleased to make use 
 of for my conversion. After having been deservedly ren- 
 dered unfit for any society, to be again qualified for it, and 
 admitted at once into the fellowship of those whom God 
 regards as the excellent of the earth, and whom, in the 
 emphatical language of Scripture, he preserves as the apple 
 of his eye, is a blessing, which carries with it the stamp 
 and visible superscription of divine boimty — a grace un- 
 limited as undeserved ; and, like its glorious author, free 
 in its course, and blessed in its operation. 
 
 " ]My dear cousin, health and happiness, and, above all, 
 the favour of our great and gracious Lord attend you ! 
 While we seek it in spirit and in truth, we are infinitely 
 more secure of it than of the next breach we expect to 
 draw. Heaven and earth have their destined periods ; 
 ten thousand worlds will A'anish at the consummation of 
 all things ; but the word of God standeth fast, and they 
 who trust in him shall never be confounded. 
 
 "My love to all who inquire after me. 
 
 " Yours affectionately, 
 
 " ^Y. c." 
 
 One of his few remaining friends was Joseph Hill, Esq., 
 of Great Queen Street, and afterwards of Saville Row, who 
 became secretary to Lord-Chancellor Thurlow. His attach- 
 ment to the poet knew no change or variation ; and it 
 must be reckoned one of the peculiar circumstances in 
 Cowper's lot, that a friend so faithful and so wise was 
 pi'eserved to him through his whole life, to watch over all 
 his pecuniary affairs. He vrrites to Mr. Hill at this period 
 as follows : — 
 
 " Oct. 2.). 1765. 
 
 "Dear Joe, — I am afraid the month of October has 
 proved rather unfavourable to the belle assemhUe at South- 
 ampton, high winds and continual rains being l)itter ene- 
 mies to that agreeable lounge which you and I are equally 
 fond of. I have very cordially betaken myself to my books 
 and my fireside, and seldom leave them unless for exercise. 
 I have added another family to the number of those I was
 
 RECOVERY AND RETIREMEXT, 39 
 
 acquainted with when you were here. Their name is 
 Unwiu — the most agreeable people imaginable ; quite soci- 
 able, and as free from the ceremonious civility of country 
 gentlefolks as any I ever met with. They treat me more 
 like a near relation than a stranger, and their house is 
 always open to me. The old gentleman carries me to 
 Cambridge in his chaise. He is a man of learning and 
 good sense, and as simple as Parson Adams. His wife has a 
 very uncommon understanding, has read much, to excellent 
 purpose, and is more polite than a duchess. The son, who 
 belongs to Cambridge, is a most amiable young man, and 
 the daughter quite of a piece with the rest of the family. 
 They see but httle company, which suits me exactly ; go 
 when I will, I hnd a house full of peace and cordiality in 
 all its parts, and am sure to hear no scandal, but such 
 discourse instead of it as we are aU better for. You 
 remember Rousseau's description of an EngUsh morning ; 
 such are the mornings I spend with these good people, and 
 the evenings differ from them in nothing, except that they 
 are still more snug and quieter. Now I know them, I 
 wonder that I hked Huntingdon so weU before I knew 
 them, and am apt to think I should find every place dis- 
 agi'eeable that had not an Unwin belonging to it. 
 
 "This incident convinces me of the truth of an obsei-va- 
 tion I have often made, that when we circumscribe our 
 estimate of all that is clever within the limits of our own 
 acquaintance (which I, at least, have been always apt to do) 
 we arc guilty of a very uncharitable censure upon the rest 
 of the world, and of a narro^vness of thinking disgraceful to 
 ourselves. Wapping and RedrifF may contain some of the 
 most amiable persons living, and such as one would go to 
 Wapping and RedrifF to make acquaintance with. You 
 remember Gray's stanza, — 
 
 ' Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
 The dai-k imlathom'd caves of ocean Lear; 
 Full many a rose is torn to blush unseen, 
 Anil waste its fragrance on the desert air.' 
 
 " Yours, dear Joe, 
 
 «W. C."
 
 40 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER, 
 
 We have spoken of Mrs. Unwin as being selected, by 
 the special providence of God, to be Cowper's guardian for 
 more than thirty years. Tliis is indicated, beyond the 
 possibility of error, iu her history. 
 
 The Rev. Morley Unwin, her husband, had been Master 
 of the Free School, and Lecturer of the two churches in 
 Huntingdon, for several years. He married Mary Caw- 
 thorne, the daughter of a draper in Ely. Her history, and 
 the admiration expressed for her by such persons as Lady 
 Hesketh and Lady Austen, prove that she must have been 
 endowed with many excellencies. Natural talent must 
 have been improved by cultivation to have attracted such 
 a mind as that of Cowper. The solid qualities of her mind 
 were evinced by her long devotion to the most painful of 
 all duties as his watchful guardian. Her two children, a 
 son and a daughter, reflected back her virtues, and be- 
 came the beloved friends of the poet. 
 
 The son, William Ca^vthorne Unwin, had been pleased 
 with Cowper's countenance, and had felt a strong incli- 
 nation to call on him ; but the father dissuaded him 
 from this, because it was said that the stranger rather 
 declined society than sought it. One day, however, as they 
 came out of church after the morning prayers, young 
 Unwin, seeing him take a solitary walk under a row of 
 trees, accosted and joined him there, and, finding that 
 his advances were gladly received, engaged himself to 
 drink tea with him that afternoon. ' To my inexpressible 
 joy,' says Cowper, in his Memoir, 'I found him one whose 
 notions of religion were spiritual and lively ; one whom 
 the Lord had been training from his infancy to the service 
 of the Temjjle. We opened our hearts to each other at the 
 first interview ; and when we parted I immediately retired 
 to my chamber, and prayed the Lord, who had been the 
 author, to be the guardian of our friendship ; to give it 
 fervency and perpetuity even unto death ; and I doubt 
 not that my gracious Father has heard this prayer 
 also." 
 
 Veiy shortly afterwards circumstances drew them still 
 nearer together. Cow23er's income was narrow, — being 
 jjartly derived from son)c remains of his small inheritance,
 
 RECOVERY AXD RETIREMENT. 41 
 
 and partly from an annual allowance remitted to liim hj 
 some of his relatives. His faithful friend Hill was his 
 agent and counsellor in all pecuniary matters ; and con- 
 tinued his kind services in this matter to the end of Cow- 
 per's life. At this period his means were not equal to his 
 wants, while living alone. 
 
 " Suddenly," he says, " it occurred to me that I might, 
 probably, find a place in ]\Ir. Unwin's family as a boarder. 
 A young gentleman, who had lived with him as a pupil, 
 was the day before gone to Cambridge. It appeared to 
 mc, at least, possible that I might be allowed to succeed 
 him. From the moment this thought struck me, such a 
 tumult of anxious solicitude seized me, that for two or 
 three days I could not divert my mind to any other sub- 
 ject. I blamed and condemned myself for want of sub- 
 mission to the Lord's will ; but still the language of my 
 mutinous and disobedient heart was, ' Give me the blessing, 
 or else I die ! ' 
 
 " About the third evening after I had determined upon 
 this measure, I, at length, made shift to fosten my thoughts 
 upon a theme which had no manner of connexion with it. 
 While I was pursuing my meditations, Mr. Unwin and 
 family quite out of sight, my attention was suddenly called 
 home again by the words which had been continually play- 
 ing in my mind, and were, at length, repeated with such 
 importunity that I could not help regarding them, — ' The 
 Lord God of truth will do this.' I was effectually con- 
 vinced that they were not of my own production, and, 
 accordingly, I received from them some assurance of suc- 
 cess : but my unbelief and fearfulness robbed me of much 
 of the comfort they were intended to convey ; though I 
 have since had many a blessed experience of the same 
 kind, for which I can never be sutticiently thankful. I 
 immediately began to negotiate the aftair, and in a few 
 days it was entirely concludeil." 
 
 Some months now passed away without any continuance 
 of the correspondence with Ltidy Heskcth. One cause of 
 his cousin's silence is, no doubt, correctly surmised in the 
 first sentence of the following letter, which is dated March 6 ; 
 but, besides this, the tone and spirit of his letters must
 
 42 LIFE OF WILLIAJI COWPER, 
 
 have been, to a lady moving in the world of pleasure and 
 fashion, such as she found it difficult to respond to : — 
 
 "Huntingdon, March 6, 1766. 
 
 " My dear Cousin, — I have for some time past imputed 
 your silence to the cause which you yourself assign for it, 
 viz. to my change of situation ; and was even sagacious 
 enough to account for the frequency of your letters to me 
 while I lived alone, from your attention to me in a state 
 of such sohtude, as seemed to make it an act of particular 
 charity to write to me. I bless God for it — I was happy 
 even then ; sohtude has nothing gloomy in it if the soul 
 points upwards. St. Paul tells his Hebrew converts, ' Ye 
 are come (already come) to Mount Siou, to an innumerable 
 company of angels, to the general assembly of the first- 
 born, which are written in heaven, and to Jesus the medi- 
 ator of the new covenant.' When this is the case, as 
 surely it was with them, or the Spirit of Truth had never 
 spoken it, there is an end of the melancholy and dulness 
 of life at once. You will not suspect me, my dear cousin, 
 of a design to understand this passage literally. But this, 
 however, it certainly means ; that a lively faith is able to 
 anticipate, in some measure, the joys of that heavenly 
 society which the soul shall actually possess hereafter. 
 
 " Since I have changed my situation, I have found still 
 greater cause of thanksgiving to the Father of all mercies. 
 
 The family with whom I live are Christians ; and it 
 has pleased the Almighty to bring me to the knowledge of 
 them, that I may want no means of improvement in that 
 temper and conduct which he is pleased to require in all 
 his servants. 
 
 "My dear cousin, one half of the Christian world would 
 call this madness, fanaticism, and folly : but are not these 
 things warranted by the word of God, not only in the pas- 
 sages I have cited, but in many others ? If we have no 
 communion v/ith God here, surely we can expect none 
 hereafter. A faith that does not place our conversation in ■ 
 heaven — that does not warm the heart and purify it too — 
 that docs not, in short, govern our thought, word, and 
 deed, is no faith, nor will it obtain for us any spiritual
 
 RECOVERY AND RETIREMENT. 43 
 
 blessing here or hereafter. Let us see, therefore, my dear 
 cousin, that v/e do not deceive ourselves in a matter of 
 such infinite moment. The world will be ever telling us 
 that we are good enough ; and the world will vilify us 
 behind our backs. ]jut it is not the world which tries the 
 heart, — that is the prerogative of God alone. ]\fy dear 
 cousin, I have often prayed for you behind your back, and 
 now I pray for you to your face. Tliere are many who 
 would not forgive me this wrong ; but I have known you 
 so long, and so well, that I am not afraid of telling you 
 how sincerely I wish for your growth in every Christian 
 grace, — in everything that may promote and secure your 
 everlasting welfare. 
 
 " I am obliged to Mrs. Cowper for the book, which, }ou 
 l^erceive, arrived safe. I am willing to consider it as an 
 intimation on her part that she would wish me to write to 
 her, and shall do it accordingly. My circumstances arc 
 rather particular, such as call upon my friends — those, I 
 mean, who are truly such — to take some little notice of 
 me ; and will naturally make those, who are not such in 
 sincerity, rather shy of doing it. To this I impute the 
 silence of many with regaril to me, who, before the aflflic- 
 tion that befel mc, were ready enough to converse with 
 
 me. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 Once more he addressed this beloved cousin in the 
 same strain ; but it soon became evident that she was 
 unable to take her part in such a correspondence. He 
 thus writes : — 
 
 "Jan. ,']0, 1707. 
 
 "My dear Lady Hesketh, — I am glad you spent yoin- 
 summer in a place so agreeable to you. As to me, my lot 
 is cast in a country where we have neither woods, nor com- 
 mons, nor pleasant prospects — all flat and insipid; in the 
 summer adorned only with blue willows, and in the winter 
 covered with a flood. Such it is at present : our bridges 
 shaken almost in pieces, our poor willows torn away by the 
 roots, and our haycocks almost afloat. Yet even hero wc
 
 44 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 are happy — at least, I am so ; and if I have no groves with 
 benches conveniently disposed, nor commons overgrown 
 with thyme to regale me, neither do I want them. You 
 thought to make my mouth water at the charms of Tap- 
 low, but you see you are disappointed. 
 
 " My dear cousin, I am a living man ; and I can never 
 reflect that I am so, without recollecting at the same time 
 that I have infinite cause of thanksgiving and joy. This 
 makes every place delightful to me where I can have leisure 
 to meditate upon those mercies by which I live, and in- 
 dulge a vein of gratitude to that gracious God who has 
 snatched me like a brand out of the burning. Where had 
 I ])een but for his forbearance and long-suffering 1 even 
 with those who shall never see his face in hoj^e, to whom 
 the name of Jesus, by the just judgment of God, is become 
 a torment instead of a remedy. Thoughtless and incon- 
 siderate wretch that I was ! I lived as if I had been my 
 o^\•n creator, and could continue my existence to what 
 length and in what state I pleased ; as if dissipation was 
 the narrow way which leads to life, and a neglect of the 
 blessed God would certainly end in the enjoyment of Him. 
 
 ;^ :tt * :i5 * 
 
 " Would I were the only one that had ever dreamed 
 this dream of foUy and wickedness ! but the world is filled 
 with such, who furnish a continual proof of God's almost 
 unprovokable mercy ; who set up for themselves in a 
 spirit of independence upon him who made them, and yet 
 enjoy that life l)y his boiuity which they abuse to his dis- 
 honour. You remember me, my dear cousin, one of this 
 trifling and deluded multitude. Great and grievous afflic- 
 tions were applied to awaken me out of this deep sleep, 
 and, under tlie influence of divine grace, have, I trust, pro- 
 duced the effect for which they were intended. * * * * 
 This is no fable, but it is our life. If we stand at the 
 loft hand of Christ wliile we live, we shall stand there, too, 
 in the judgment. The separation must be begun in this 
 world, which in that day shall be made for ever. My dear 
 cousin, may the Son of God, who shall then assign to each 
 his everlasting station, direct and settle all your thouglits 
 ujjon this important subject."
 
 IIECOVERY AND RETIREMENT, 46 
 
 liady Ilcskcth .soon afterwards went abroad with Sir 
 Thomas, and remained there for several years. Her cor- 
 rcsiiondence with Cowpcr was not renewed until eighteen 
 years had elapsed. 
 
 But while he lost one cousin as a correspondent, he 
 gained, about the same period, another, and one who could 
 iniderstand and sympathize with him. The wife of his 
 relative, Ma.jor Cowper, was the sister of the Rev. Martin 
 l\Iadan, the minister of the Lock Chapel, one of the most 
 l)rominent of the Evangelical clergy of that day. Mrs. 
 Cowpcr would naturally learn from her husband the re- 
 storation of their relative to mental health and peace ; and 
 she soon sent to him a book which. she judged suitable to 
 his present state. He thus acknowledges it : — 
 
 " Huntingdon, March 11, 1766. 
 
 "My dear Cousin, — I am much obliged to you for 
 PcarsaU's JMeditations, especially as it furnishes mc with 
 an occasion of writing to you, which is all I have waited 
 for. I\[y friends must excuse me if I write to none but 
 those who lay it fairly in my way to do so. The inference 
 1 am apt to draw from their silence is, that they wish me 
 to be silent too. 
 
 " I have great reason, my dear cousin, to be thankful 
 to the gracious Providence that conducted me to this 
 place. The lady in whose house I live is so excellent a 
 person, and regards me with a friendship so truly Christian, 
 that I could almost fancy my own mother restored to life 
 again, to compensate to me for all the friends I have lost, 
 and all my connexions broken. She has a son at Cam- 
 bridge in all respects worthy of such a mother ; the most 
 amiable young man I ever knew. His natural and ac- 
 quired endowments are very considerable ; and as to his 
 virtues, I need only say that he is a Christian. It ought to 
 be a matter of daily thanksgiving to me that I am admitted 
 into the society of such persons, and I pray God to make 
 me and keep me worthy of them. 
 
 " Your brother Martin has been very kind to me, having 
 written to me twice in a style which, though it was once 
 irksome to me, to say the least, I now know how to value.
 
 46 LIFE or WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 I pray God to forgive me the many light things I have both 
 said and thought of him and his labours. Hereafter I 
 shall consider him as a burning and a shining light ; and as 
 one of those who, having turned many to righteousness, 
 shall sliine hereafter as tlie stars for ever and ever. 
 
 " So much for the state of my heart : as to my spirits, 
 I am cheerful and hapi:)y, and, having peace with God, 
 have peace with myself. For the continuance of this bless- 
 ing I trust to him who gives it, and they who trust iu 
 him shall never be confounded. 
 
 " Yours afFectiouately, 
 
 «W. C." 
 
 This intercourse, once begun, was naturally frequent. 
 The foUowiiig letters foUow in the same year : — 
 
 " HiinHngchii, April 4, 1766. 
 " My dear Cousin, — I agree with you that letters are 
 not essential to friendship, but they seem to be a natural 
 fruit of it, when they are the only intercourse that can be 
 had. And a friendship producing no sensible effects is 
 so like indifference, that the appearance may easily deceive 
 even an acute discerner. I retract, however, all that I said 
 in my last upon this subject, having reason to suspect that 
 it proceeded from a principle which I v^'ould discourage in 
 myself upon all occasions, even a pride that felt itself hurt 
 upon a mere suspicion of neglect. I have so much cause 
 for humility, and so much need of it, too ; and every little 
 sneaking resentment is such an enemy to it, that I hope I 
 shall never give quarter to anything that aj^pears in the 
 shape of suUenness or self- consequence hereafter. Alas ! if 
 my best Friend, who laid down his life for me, were to 
 remember all the instances in which I have neglected him, 
 ;md to plead them against me in judgment, where should I 
 ]iide my guilty head in the day of recompense 1 I will 
 pray, therefore, for blessings upon my friends, though they 
 cease to be so ; and iqion my enemies, though they con- 
 tinue such. The deceitfulncss of the natural heart is incon- 
 ceivable ; I know well that I j^assed among my friends for a 
 person at least religiously inclined, if not actually religious ;
 
 RECOVERY AND RETIRESIENT. 47 
 
 and, what is more ^Yonderful, I thought myself a Christian, 
 when I had no faith in Clirist, when I saw no beauty in 
 him that I should desire him ; in short, when I had neither 
 faith, nor love, nor any Christian grace whatever, but a 
 thousand seeds of rebellion instead, evermore springing up 
 in enmity against him. But, blessed be God, even the God 
 who is become my salvation, the hail of affliction and 
 rebuke for sin has swept away the refuge of lies. It 
 pleased the Almighty, in great mercy, to set all my mis- 
 deeds before me. At length, the storm being past, a quiet 
 and peaceful serenity of soul succeeded, such as ever attends 
 the gift of hving faith in the all-sufficient atonement, and 
 the sweet sense of mercy and pardon purchased by the 
 l)lood of Christ. Thus did he break me, and bind me up ; 
 thus did he wound me, and his hands made me whole. 
 My dear cousin, I make no apology for entertaining you 
 with the history of my conversion, because I know you to 
 be a Christian in the sterhng import of the appellation. 
 This is, however, but a very summary account of the 
 matter, neither would a letter contain the astonishing par- 
 ticulars of it. If we ever meet again in this world, I will 
 relate them to you by word of mouth ; if not, they will 
 serve for the subject of a conference in the next, where, I 
 doubt not, I shall remenilier and record them with a grati- 
 tude better suited to the subject. 
 
 " Yours, my dear cousin, affectionately, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 ^' Huiitini/don, Sept. 3, 17CG. 
 " My dear Cousin, — It is reckoned, you know, a great 
 achievement to silence an opponent in disputation, and 
 your silence was of so long a contimiance, that I might 
 well begin to please myself with the apprehension of having 
 accomplished so arduous a matter. To be serious, how- 
 ever, I am not sorry that what I have said concerning our 
 knowledge of each other in a future state has a little 
 inchned you to the affirmative. For though the redeemed 
 of the Lord shall l)e sure of being as happy in that state as 
 infinite power employed l)y infinite goodness can make 
 them, — and, therefore, it may seem immaterial whether wc
 
 48 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 shall or sliall not recollect each other hereafter ; yet our 
 present happiness, at least, is a little interested in the 
 question. A parent, a friend, a wife, must needs, I think, 
 feel a little heart-ache at the thought of an eternal sejiara- 
 tion from the objects of her regard : and not to know them 
 when she meets them in another life, or never to meet 
 them at all, amounts, though not altogether, yet nearly, to 
 the same thing. Remember them, I think, she needs must. 
 To hear that they are happy will, indeed, be no small addi- 
 tion to her own felicity, but to see them so will surely be 
 a greater. Thus, at least, it appears to our present human 
 ajjprehension ; consequently, therefore, to think that, when 
 we leave them, we lose them for ever, — that we must 
 remain eternally ignorant whether they that were flesh of 
 our flesh, and bone of our bone, partake with us of celestial 
 glory, or are disinherited of their heavenly portion, must 
 shed a dismal gloom over all our present connexions. For 
 my own part, this life is such a momentary thing, and all 
 its interests have so shrunk in my estimation, since, by 
 the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, I became attentive to 
 the things of another, that, like a worm in the bud of all 
 my friendships and afiections, this very thought would eat 
 out the heart of them all, had I a thousand ; and were 
 their date to terminate with this life, I think I should 
 have no inclination to cultivate and improve such a fugi- 
 tive business. Yet friendship is necessary to our happi- 
 ness here, and, built upon Christian principles, upon which 
 only it can stand, is a thing even of religious sanction. 
 For what is that love which the Holy Spirit, speaking by 
 St. John, so much inculcates, but friendship 1 — the only 
 love which deserves the name — a love which can toil, and 
 Avatch, and deny itself, and go to death for its brother. 
 AVorldly friendships are a poor weed compared with this ; 
 and even this luiion of spirit in the bond of peace would 
 sufier — in my mind, at least, — could I think it were only 
 coeval with our earthly mansions. It may, possibly, argiie 
 great weakness in me, in this instance, to stand so much in 
 need of future hopes to support me in the discharge of 
 present duty. But so it is. I am far, I know, very far, 
 from being perfect in Christian love, or any other divine
 
 RECOVERY AXD RETIREMENT. 49 
 
 attainment, and am, therefore, unwilling to forego whatever 
 may help me in my progress. 
 
 "You are so kind as to inquire after my health, for 
 which reason I must tell you, Avhat otherwise would not be 
 worth mentioning, that I have lately beeu just enough in- 
 disposed to convince me that not only human life in general, 
 but mine in particular, hangs by a slender thread. I am 
 stout enough in appearance, yet a little illness demolishes 
 me. I have had a severe shake, and the building is not so 
 firm as it was. But I bless God for it, with all my heart. 
 If the inner man be but strengthened day by day, as I 
 hope, under the renewing influences of the Holy Ghost, it 
 will be, no matter how soon the outward is dissolved. He 
 who has, in a manner, raised me from the dead, in a literal 
 sense, has given me the grace, I trust, to be ready at the 
 shortest notice to surrender up to him that life which I 
 have twice received from him. "Wliether I live or die, I 
 desire it may be to his glory, and it must be to my happi- 
 ness. I thank God that I have those amongst my kindred 
 to whom I can write, without reserve, my sentiments upon 
 this subject, as I do to you. A letter upon any other 
 subject is more insipid to me than ever, my task was when 
 a schoolboy ; and I say not this in vain-glory, God forbid ! 
 but to show you what the Almighty, whose name I am 
 im worthy to mention, has done for me, the chief of sinners. 
 Once he was a terror to ine ; and his service, oh, Avhat a 
 weariness it was ! Now I can say, I love him and his 
 holy name, and am never so happy as when I speak of his 
 mercies to me. 
 
 " Yours, dear Cousin, 
 
 «W.C." 
 
 ''Huntingdon, Oct. 20, 17C6. 
 " My dear Cousin, — I ani very sorry for poor Charles's 
 illness, and hope you will soon have cause to thank God 
 for his complete recovery. Wc have an epidemical fever 
 in this country, likewise, which leaves behind it a con- 
 tinual sighing, almost to suffocation : not that I have seen 
 any instance of it, for, blessed be God ! oiu' family have 
 
 E
 
 no LIFE OF VVlLUAir COWPER. 
 
 hitherto escaped it, but such was the account I heard of it 
 this morning. 
 
 " I am obhgcd to you for the interest you take in my 
 welfare, and for your inquiring so particularly after the 
 manner in which my time i>ass:es here. As to amusements 
 — I mean what the world calls such — we have none ; the 
 place, indeed, swarms with them, and cards and dancing 
 are the professed business of almost all the gentle inhabitants 
 of Huntingdon. We refuse to take part in them, or to be 
 accessories to this way of murdering our time, and by so 
 doing have acquired the name of Methodists. Having told 
 you how we do not spend our time, I will next say how we 
 do. We breakfast commonly between eight and nine ; till 
 eleven we read cither the Scrij^ture, or the sermons of 
 some faithful preacher of those holy mysteries ; at eleven 
 we attend divine service, which is performed here twice 
 every day ; and from twelve to three we separate, and 
 amuse ourselves as we please. During that interval I 
 either read in my own apartment, or walk, or ride, or 
 work in the garden. We seldom sit an hour after dinner, 
 but, if the weather permits, adjourn to the garden, where, 
 with Mrs. Unwin and her son, I have gererally the plcasm-e 
 of religious conversation till tea-time. If it rains, or is too 
 windy for walking, we either converse within doors, or 
 sing some hymns of Martin's collection, and, by the help of 
 Mrs. Unwin's harpsichord, make up a tolerable concert, in 
 which our hearts, I hope, arc the best and most musical 
 performers. After tea we sally forth to walk in good 
 earnest. Mrs. Unwin is a good walker, and we have gene- 
 rally travelled about four miles before we see home again. 
 When the days are short, wc make this exciirsion in the 
 former part of the day, between church-time and dinner. 
 At night we read and converse, as before, till supper, and 
 commonly finish the evening either with hymns or a ser- 
 mon ; and, last of all, the family are called to prayers. I 
 need not tell you that such a life as this is consistent with 
 the utmost cheerfulness ; accordingly, we are all happy, 
 and dwell together in unity as brethren. Mrs. Unwin has 
 almost a maternal affection for me, and I have something
 
 RKCOVERY AND RETIREMENT. 51 
 
 very like a filial one for her, and her son and I are brothers. 
 Blessed be the God of our salvation for such companions, 
 and for such a life ; above all, for a heart to like it. 
 
 " I have had many anxious thoughts about taking 
 orders, and I believe every new convert is apt to think 
 himself called upon for that purpose ; but it has pleased 
 God, by means wluch there is no need to })articularize, to 
 give me full satisfaction as to the propriety of declining it : 
 indeed, they who have the least idea of what I have suf- 
 fered from the dread of public exhibitions, will readily 
 excuse my never attempting them hereafter. In the mean- 
 time, if it please the Almighty, I may be an instrument of 
 turning many to the truth, in a private way, and hope that 
 my endeavours in this way have not been entirely unsuc- 
 cessful. Had I the zeal of Moses, I should want an Aaron 
 to be my spokesman. 
 
 " Yours ever, my dear cousin, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 Several other letters passed between him and Islrs. 
 Cowper about this time ; but a few more months brought 
 to a sudden termination this part of Cowper's history. 
 Two short letters nan-ate the facts, which occasioned some 
 impoi-tant changes. To Mrs. Cowper he writes : — 
 
 ^^ Huntingdon, July 13, 17C7. 
 , "My dear Cousin, — The newspaper has told you the 
 truth. Poor Mr. Unwin, being flung from his horse as he 
 was going to his church on Sunday morning, received a 
 dreadful fracture on the back part of the skull, under 
 which he languished till Thursday evening, and then died. 
 This awful dispensation has left an impression upon our 
 spirits, which will not be presently worn oft". He died in 
 a poor cottage, to which he was carried immediately after 
 his fall, about a mile from home, and his body could not 
 be brought to his house till the spirit was gone to him 
 who gave it. May it be a lesson to us to watch, since we 
 know not the day nor the hour when our Lord comcth. 
 
 " The effect of it upon my circumstances will only be a 
 change of the place of my abode. For I shall still, by
 
 52 LIFE or WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 God's leave, continue with jMvs. Unwin, whose beha\'iour 
 to me has always been tliat of a motlier to a son. We 
 know not where we shall settle ; but we trust that the 
 Lord, whom we seek, will go before us and prepare a rest 
 for us. "We have employed our friend Haweis, Dr. Con- 
 yers of Helmsley in Yorkshire, and Mr. Newton of Olney, 
 to look out a place for us, but at present are entirely 
 ignorant under which of the three we shall settle, or 
 whether under either. I have written to my aunt ]Madan, 
 to desire Martin to assist us with his inquiries. It is pro- 
 bable we shall stay here till Michaelmas. 
 
 • " W. C." 
 
 And to Mr. Hill :— 
 
 '' Huntunjdon, July 16, 17G7, 
 " Dear Joe, — Your wishes that the newspaper may have 
 misinformed you are vain. Llr. Unwin is dead, and died 
 in the manner there mentioned. At nine o'clock on 
 Sunday morning he was in perfect health, and as likely to 
 live twenty years as either of us, and before ten was 
 stretched speechless and senseless upon a flock bed, in a 
 poor cottage, where (it being impossible to remove him) he 
 died on Thursday evening. I heai'd his dying groans, the 
 eifect of great agony, for he was a strong man, and much 
 convulsed in his last moments. The few short intervals of 
 sense that were granted him he spent in earnest praj'tr, 
 and in expressions of a firm trust and confidence in the 
 only Saviour. To that stronghold we must all resort at 
 last, if we would have hope in our death ; when every other 
 refuge fails, we are glad to fly to the only shelter to which 
 we can repair to any purpose ; and happy is it for us 
 when, the false ground we have chosen for ourselves being 
 broken under us, we find ourselves obliged to have recourse 
 to the rock which can never be shaken : when this is our 
 lot, we receive great and undeserved mercy. 
 
 " Our society will not break \\\), but we shall settle in 
 some other place ; where, is at present uncertain. 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 «W. C."
 
 KECOVERY AND IlETIREME^'T. 53 
 
 The first and immediate result ofMr. Unwin's death. 
 
 was a rcsohitiou to leave Huutingdoii. This, probably, 
 was the iiistunt desire of both his widow and the poet. 
 Mr. Unwiu's son was entering the ministry, and would be 
 no longer resident in that town. A[iss Unwin was married 
 to a clergyman in Yorkshire. The family circle was broken 
 up. Ko feeling could be more natural than that which 
 prompted the two sui'vivors, the widow and her friend, to 
 leave a place which could never more be to them what 
 it had been, and to find out a new abode in some other 
 spot. 
 
 Alexander Knox, who will not be charged with enthu- 
 siasm, while he observes how extremely difficult it is to 
 find genuine specimens of providential superintendence, 
 mentions Cowper's case as one in which the proofs of such 
 divine care are evident and uncjuestionable. "I grant," 
 he says, " that there was something awfully obscure ; but 
 through that obscurity such rays of pi'ovidential light dart 
 forth, as to make the special designation not less clear 
 than the singular sufferings were mysterious." 
 
 "We have remarked that John Co^vl3er, when seeking 
 lodgings for his brother, could not find them near Cam- 
 bridge, wliere they abound ; but found them at Huntingdon 
 with ease. At Huntingdon there dwelt, equally unknown 
 to both the brothers, the destined guardian of the poet's 
 I'emaining years. But with her, there was no apparent 
 likelihood of his ever becoming acquainted. A medium 
 was wanted, and it was ready. 
 
 Young Unwin voluntarily accosts Cowj^er, and brings 
 hmi to his mother's house, where he soon becomes an 
 inmate. 
 
 But the son leaves Huntingdon for college, and a 
 curacy. His sister marries. Cowper, then, is left with 
 ]\Ir. and Mrs. Unwin. The messenger of death suddenly 
 calls aAvay the husband. By what is called an accident, 
 he is quickly taken to heaven. 
 
 And thus the two persons, who were to spend thirty 
 years of their remaining hves togetlier, were stripped of 
 all the other members of tlieir family, and left to be every- 
 thing to each other.
 
 54 LIFE OF WILLIAM COW TLK. 
 
 All eminent clergyman, Dr. Conyers, had met the 
 younger Mr. Unwin at Cambridge some months before 
 this, and had learned his state of mind, and his mother'.^ 
 religious character. He named both to the Eev. John 
 Ne\\i;on of Olney, requesting him, when passing through 
 Huntingdon, to call on I\lrs. Unwin. That visit took 
 place a few days after Mr. Uuwin's death. The result was, 
 a determination on their part to leave Huntingdon at 
 once, and to fix their future abode at Olney.
 
 i'lliiil PERIOD <)F IJIS RESIDEXCE AT OLMiY. 6ii 
 
 IV. 
 
 FIEST PERIOD OF HIS EESIDENCE AT OLNEY. 
 A.D. i;07— 1773. 
 
 The brief portion of Cowj^er's life on which we are now 
 entering must be regarded by every one, who cahiily con- 
 siders the subject, as the only really haj)py period of his 
 earthly existence. After spending more than thirty years 
 in a careless youth, and an idle, purposeless manhood, he 
 was suddenly plunged into the depths of melancholy mad- 
 ness. Emerging gradually from this state, he at last, in 
 one moment, received Divine hght, and was enabled to 
 perceive and to "lay hold on the hope set before him." 
 He could now rejoice ; although, looking back on wasted 
 years and upon months of insanity, he could only " rejoice 
 with trembling." His letters to his faithful friend, Mr, 
 Hill, at this period, exhibit most clearly the solemn but 
 peaceful state of mind he then enjoyed. 
 
 Mr. Newton had engaged for them a house at Olney, 
 where Cowpcr and j\Irs. Unwin arrived on the 14th of 
 October, 1707. He very soon Avrites to his friend Hill : — 
 
 " Olnrr/, Ocloher 20, 1767. 
 "I have no map to consult at present, but, by what 
 remembrance I have of the situation of this place in tho 
 la.st I saw, it lies at the northernmost point of the county, 
 "We are just five miles beyond Newport Pagnell. I am 
 willing to suspect that you make this inquiry with a view 
 to an intervieiv, when time shall serve. We may possibly 
 be settled in our house in about a month, where so good a 
 friend of mine will be extremely welcome to Mrs. Umvin. 
 "\Vc shall havo a bed and a warm fire-side at your service,
 
 66 LIFE OF WnXIAM COWPEE. 
 
 if you can come before next summer ; and if not, a 
 parlour that looks tlie north wind full in the face, where 
 you may be as cool as in the groves of Valombrosa. 
 " Yours, my dear Sephus, 
 
 " Affectionately ever, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 A few short notes are all that remain to us of the 
 occurrences of the next eight months. We leai-n from 
 other sources than his own correspondence, that he entered 
 heartily into all Mr. Newton's plans and proceedings. A 
 letter given a few pages back acquaints us with the fact, 
 that thoughts of entering into the ministry had passed 
 through his mind. From I\Ir. Bull's* correspondence we 
 gather that, in the weekly meetings for reading the Scrip- 
 tures and prayer, held by Mr. Ne^vton in a large room 
 rented by him for the purpose, Cowper was accustomed to 
 take a part. The editor says, — " I have a Ust, in the hand- 
 writing of I\rr. Bull, of the j)ersons who engaged in prayer 
 at these meetings, and it is interesting to observe among 
 them the frequent recurrence of the name of Cowper." 
 
 Mr. Newton himself, in a letter dated 1774, says, — 
 "The Lord evidently sent him to Olney, where he has 
 been a blessing to many, a great blessing to myself." 
 
 In the summer Cowper thus writes : — 
 
 " Olncy, June IC, 1708, 
 "Dear Joe, — I thank jou for so full an answer to so 
 empty an epistle. If Olney furnished anything for your 
 amusement, you should have it in return ; but occurrences 
 here are as scarce as cucumbers at Christmas. 
 
 " I visited St. Albau's about a fortnight since in person, 
 and I visit it every day in thought. The recollection of 
 what passed there, and the consequences that followed it, 
 fill my mind continually, and make the circumstances of a 
 poor, transient, half-spent life, so insipid, and unafFecting, 
 that I have no heart to think or write much about them. 
 
 * The Uov. W. Bull, of Nc\vi)ovt Pa^iioU, whose connexion and inter- 
 coxxrse with Cowper will presently come under our notice.
 
 to 
 
 FIRST PERIOD OF HIS RESIDENCE AT OLNEY. 57 
 
 Whether the nation is worshipping ]\[r. Wilkes, or any- 
 other idol, is of little moment to one who hopes and 
 ])elieves that he shall shortly stand in the presence of the 
 jreat and blessed God. I thank him, that he has given me 
 such a deep, impressed, persuasion of this awful truth as a 
 thousand worlds would not purchase from mc. It gives me 
 a relish to every blessing, and makes every trouble light. 
 
 " Affectionately yours, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 In the following winter i\[r. Hill was visited by dan- 
 gerous illness, and his recovery elicited fi'om Cowper the 
 following friendly epistles : — 
 
 "Oliiey,Ja>i. 21, 1700. 
 "Dear Joe, — I rejoice with you in your recovery, and 
 that you have escaped from the hands of one from whose 
 hands you will not always escape. Death is either the 
 most formidable, or the most comfortable thing we have 
 in prospect, on this side of eternity. To be brought near 
 to him, and to discern neither of these features in his face, 
 would argue a degree of insensibility, of which I will not 
 suspect my friend, whom I know to be a thinking man. 
 You have been brought down to the side of tiie grave, 
 and you have been raised again by him who has the keys 
 of the invisible world ; who opens and none can shut, who 
 shuts and none can open. I do not forget to return thanks 
 to him on your behalf, and to pray that your life, which 
 he has spared, may be devoted to his service. ' Behold ! 
 I stand at the door and knock,' is the word of him, on 
 whom both our mortal and immortal life depend, and, 
 blessed be his name, it is the word of one who wounds 
 only that he may heal, and who waits to be gracious. Tlie 
 language of every such dispensation is, ' Prepare to meet thy 
 God.' It speaks with the voice of mercy and goodness, for, 
 without such notices, whatever preparation we might make 
 for other events, we sliould make none for this. ]\ry dear 
 friend, I desire and pray that, when this last enemy shall 
 come to execute an iinlimited commission upon us, we may 
 be found ready, being established and rooted in a well-
 
 58 Lli''E OF WILLIAJI COWPER. 
 
 grouuded faith in His name, wlio conquered and triumphed 
 over him upon hiy cros«. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 " Olneij, Jan. 29, 17G9. 
 " My tlear Joe, — I have a moment to spare, to tell you 
 that your letter is just come to hand, and to thank you for 
 it. I do assure you, the gentleness and candour of your 
 manner engages my afiectiou to you very much. You 
 answer with mildness to an admonition, which would have 
 provoked many to anger. I ha\'e not time to add more, 
 except just to hint that, if I am ever enabled to look for- 
 ward to death with comfort, which, I thank God, is some- 
 times the case with me, I do not take my view of it from 
 the top of my own works and deservings ; though God is 
 witness that the labour of my life is to keep a conscience 
 void of offence towards him. He is always formidable to 
 me, but when I see him disarmed of his sting, by having 
 sheathed it in the body of Christ Jesus. 
 
 " Yours, my dear friend, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 In the summer of that year, Hill again pressingly in- 
 vited him to revisit London ; but the idea was evidently 
 most distasteful. He replies : — 
 
 " Olney, Jiihj 31, 1709. 
 
 " Dear Joe, — Sir Thomas crosses the Alps, and Sir 
 Cow|)er, for that is his title at Oluey, prefers his home to 
 any other spot of earth in the world. Horace, observing 
 this difference of temper in different persons, cried out a 
 good many years ago, in the true spirit of poetry, ' How 
 much one man dift'ers from another ! ' Tliis does not 
 seem a very sublime exclamation in English, but I re- 
 member we were taught to admire it in the original. 
 
 " I\Iy dear friend, I am obliged to you for your in- 
 vitation : but being long accustomed to retirement, which 
 I was always fond of, I am now more than ever unwilling 
 to revisit those noisy and crowded scenes, wliicli I never 
 loved, and v>hich I i(uw ubiior. I remember you with all
 
 FlILSX I'EIUUD OF 1118 lUiSIUKNCK AT ULNEV. 59 
 
 the fricnrlship I ever professed, which is as nnich as I ever 
 eutcrtaiiicd fur any man. But tlie strange and uncommon 
 incidents of my Hfe have given an entire new turn to my 
 whole character and conduct, and rendered me incapable of 
 receiving pleasure from the same employments and amuse- 
 ments of wjiich I cuulil readily partake in former days. 
 
 " I love you and yours ; I thank you for your continued 
 remembrance of me, and shall not cease to be their and 
 your 
 
 " Affectionate friend and servant, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 A month after this his relative, Mrs. Cowper, was 
 involved in deep family affliction, which drew from him 
 the following letter : — 
 
 " Ohinj, August 31, 17G9. 
 
 "]\ry dear Cousin, — A letter from your brother Frederic 
 brought me j'cstcrday the most afilicting intelligence that 
 has reached me these many years. I pray to God to com- 
 fort you, and to enable you to sustain this hea\'7 stroke 
 with that resignation to his will which none but Himself 
 can give, and which he gives to none but his own children. 
 How blessed and happy is your lot, my dear friend, beyond 
 the common lot of the greater part of mankind ; that you 
 know what it is to draw near to God in prayer, and are 
 acquainted with a throne of grace ! You have resources in 
 the infinite love of a dear Redeemer which are withheld 
 from millions : and the promises of God, which are yea 
 and amen in Jesus, are sufficient to answer all your neces- 
 sities, and to sweeten the bitterest cup which your heavenly 
 Father will ever put into your hand. May He now give you 
 liberty to drink at these wells of salvation, till you are 
 filled witli consolation and peace in tlie midst of trouble. 
 He has said, ' When thou passcst through the waters I 
 will be with thee, and through the rivers, they shall not 
 overflow thee.' You have need of such a word as this, 
 and he knows your need of it, and the time of necessity is 
 the time when he will be sure to appear in behalf of those 
 who trust in him. I bear you and yours upon my heart 
 before him uight and day, for I ucvgr expect to hear of
 
 60 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 distress wliicli shall call upon me witla a louder voice to 
 pray for ihe suflferer. I know the Lord hears me for my- 
 self, vile and sinful as I am, and believe, and am sure, that 
 he will hear me for you also. He is the friend of the 
 widow, and the father of the fatherless, even God in his 
 holy habitation ; in aU our afflictions he is afflicted, and 
 chastens us in mercy. Surely he wiU sanctify this dis- 
 pensation to you, do you great and everlasting good by it, 
 make the world appear like dust and vanity in your sight, 
 as it truly is, and open to your view the glories of a better 
 country, where there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, 
 nor i^ain ; but God shall wipe away aU tears from your eyes 
 for ever. Oh, that comfortable word ! ' I have chosen 
 thee in the furnace of affliction ;' so that our very sorrows 
 are evidences of our calling, and he chastens us because we 
 are his children. 
 
 " My dear cousin, I commit you to the word of his 
 grace, and to the comforts of his Holy Spirit. Your life is 
 needful for your family. May God, in mercy to them, pro- 
 long it, and may he preserve you from the dangerous 
 eflfects which a stroke like this might have upon a frame 
 so tender as yours. I grieve with you, I pray for you ; 
 could I do more I would, but God must comfort you. 
 " Yours, in our dear Lord Jesus, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 But now a heavy affliction was at liand for himself. 
 Shortly after the date of the last letter, he was summoned 
 to Cambridge to attend the bedside of his only brother, 
 then dangerously ill. An apparent recovery, for a short 
 j)eriod, took place ; but in the following March, Cowper 
 ■wi'ites his cousin, as follows : — 
 
 " March 5, 1770. 
 " My brother continues much as he was. His case is a 
 very dangerous one — an imijosthume of the liver, attended 
 by an asthma and dropsy. The physician has little hope 
 of his recovery, I believe I might say none at all, only, 
 being a friend, he docs not formally give him over by 
 ceasing to visit him, lest it should sink his spirits. For 
 my own part, I have no expectation of his recovery, except
 
 FIRST PERIOD OF HIS RESIDENCE AT OLXEY. 61 
 
 by a signal interposition of Providence in answer to prayer. 
 His case is clearly beyond the reach of medicine ; but I 
 have seen many a sickness healed, where the danger has 
 been equally threatening, by the only Physician of value. 
 I doubt not he will have an interest in your prayers, as he 
 has in the prayers of many. May the Lord incline his ear 
 and give an answer of peace. T know it is good to be 
 afflicted. I trust that you have found it so, and that under 
 the teaching of God's own Spirit we shall both be purified. 
 It is the desire of my soul to seek a better country, where 
 God shall wipe away all tears from the eyes of his people ; 
 and where, looking back upon the ways by which he has 
 led us, we shall be filled with everlasting wonder, love, and 
 praise. 
 
 " I must add no more. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 Two months later, he thus relates to Hill the close of 
 his brother's life : — 
 
 " Olney, May 8, 1770. 
 
 " Dear Joe, — Your letter did not reach me till the last 
 post, when I had not time to answer it. I left Cambridge 
 immediately after my brother's death. 
 
 " I am obliged to you for the particular account you 
 have sent me. ****** jjg^ ^q whom I have sur- 
 rendered myself and all my concerns, has otherwise ap- 
 pointed, and let his will be done. He gives me much, 
 which he withholds from others, and if he was pleased to 
 withhold all that makes an outward diftercnce between me 
 and the poor mendicant in the street, it would still become 
 me to say. His will be done. 
 
 " It pleased God to cut short my brother's connexions 
 and expectations here, yet not without giving him lively 
 and glorious views of a better happiness than any he could 
 propose to himself in such a world as this. Notwithstand- 
 ing his great learning (for he was one of the chief men in 
 the university in that respect), he was candid and sincere 
 in his inquiries after truth. Though he could not come 
 into my sentiments when I first acquainted him with them,
 
 62 LIFE OF WILLIAir COWPER. 
 
 nor, in the many conversations wliicli I afterward had with 
 him upon the subject, could he be brought to acquiesce in 
 them as scriptural and true, yet I had no sooner left St. 
 Alban's than he began to study, with the deepest attention, 
 those points in which we differed, and to furnish himself 
 with the best writers upon them. His mind was kept open 
 to conviction for five years, diu-ing all which time he la- 
 boured in this pursuit with unwearied diligence, as leisure 
 and opportunity were afforded. Amongst his dying words 
 were these : ' Brother, I thought you wrong, yet wanted to 
 believe as you did. I found myself not able to believe, yet 
 always thought I should be one day ];)rought to do so.' 
 From the study of books he was brought, upon his death- 
 bed, to the study of himself, and there learnt to renounce 
 his righteousness and his own most amiable character, and 
 to submit himself to the righteousness which is of God by 
 faith. With these views he was desirous of death. Satis- 
 fied of his interest in the blessing purchased by the blood 
 of Christ, he prayed for death with earnestness, felt the 
 approach of it with joy, and died in peace. 
 
 " Yours, mv dear friend, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 But the circumstances of Mr. John Cowj^ier's death were 
 so remarkable as to merit, and, indeed, to demand, a more 
 detailed and accurate record than could be given in an 
 ordinary letter. The following brief sketch was written liy 
 his brother at the time, and was published by Mr. Newton 
 after Cowper's own death. It could not, with propriety, 
 be omitted in a memoir of the poet ; inasmuch as it 
 exhibits nuich of his mind, as well as of his brother's. 
 
 *j 
 
 " As soon as it had pleased God, after a long and sharp 
 season of conviction, to visit me with the consolations of 
 his grace, it became one of my chief concerns, that my 
 relations might be made partakers of the same mercy. In 
 the first letter I wrote to my brother, I took occasion to 
 declare what God had done for my soul ; and am not con- 
 scious, that from that period down to his last illness I 
 wilfully neglected an opportunity of engaging him, if it
 
 FIRST PERIOD OF HIS RFilTDF.XCK \T OI.XF.V. Cli 
 
 Verc possible, in conversation of a spiritual kind. "When I 
 left St. Alban's, and went to visit him at Cambridge, my 
 heart being full of the subject, I poured it out before him 
 withoiit reserve ; and in all my subsequent dealings with 
 him, so far as I was enabled, took care to .show that I had 
 received, not merely a set of notions, but a real impression 
 of the truths of the Gospel. 
 
 "At first I found him ready enough to talk with me 
 upon these subjects ; sometimes he would di.spute, but 
 always without heat or animosity, and sometimes would 
 endeavour to reconcile the difierence of our sentiments, by 
 supposing that, at the bottom, we were both of a mind, and 
 meant the same thing. 
 
 " He was a man of a most candid and ingenuous spirit ; 
 his temper remarkably sweet, and in his behaviour to me 
 he had always manifested an uncommon affection. His 
 outward conduct, so far as it fell under my notice, or I 
 could learn it by the report of others, was perfectly decent 
 and unblamable. There was nothing vicious in any part 
 of his practice ; but, being of a studious, thoughtful turn, 
 he placed his chief delight in the acquisitit)n of learning, 
 and made such acquisitions in it, that he had but few 
 rivals in that a classical kind. He was critically skilled in 
 the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages ; was beginning to 
 make himself master of the Syriac, and perfectly under- 
 stood the French and Italian, the latter of which he coidd 
 speak fluently. These attainments, however, and many 
 others in a literary way, he lived heartily to despise ; not 
 as useless when sanctified and employed in the service of 
 God, but when sought after for their own sake, and with a 
 view to the praise of men. Learned, however, as he was, 
 he was easy and cheerful in his convei-sation, and entirely 
 free from the stiffness which is generally contracted by men 
 devoted to siich pursuits. 
 
 " Thus we spent about two j'ears, conversing as occasion 
 offered (and we generally visited each other once or twice 
 a week, as long as I continued at Huntingdon), upon the 
 leading truths of the Gospel. By this time, however, he 
 began to be more reserved ; he would hear me patiently, 
 but never reply ; and this I found, upon his own confession
 
 64 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 afterward, was the effect of a resolution he had taken, iu 
 order to avoid disputes, and to secure the continuance of 
 that peace which had always subsisted between us. AVhen 
 our family removed to OIney, our intercourse became less 
 frequent. We exchanged an annual A'isit, and, whenever 
 he came amongst us, he observed the same conduct, con- 
 forming to all our customs, attending family worship witli 
 us, and heard the preaching, received civilly whatever 
 passed in conversation upon the subject, but adhered strictly 
 to the rule he had prescribed to himself, ne\'er remarking 
 upon or objecting to anything he heard or saw. This, 
 through the goodness of his natural temper, he was en- 
 abled to carry so far, that, though some things unavoidably 
 happened, which we feared would give him offence, he 
 never took any ; for it was not possible to offer him the 
 pulpit ; nor, when Mr. Ne'wton was with us once at the 
 time of family prayer, could we ask my brother to officiate, 
 though being himself a minister, and one of our own family 
 for the time, the office seemed naturally to fall into his hands. 
 "In September 1769, I learned by letters from Cam- 
 bridge that he was dangerously ill. I set out for that 
 place the day after I received them, and found him as ill 
 as I expected. He had taken cold on his return from a 
 journey in Wales ; and, lest he should be laid up at a 
 distance from home, had pushed forward as fast as he 
 could from Bath with a fever upon him. Soon after his 
 arrival at Cambridge he discharged, imknown to himself, 
 such a prodigious quantity of blood, that the physician 
 ascribed it only to the strength of his constitution that he 
 was still alive ; and assured me, that, if the discharge should 
 be repeated, he must inevitably die upon the spot. In this 
 state of imminent danger, he seemed to have no more con- 
 cern about his spiritual interests than when in perfect 
 health. His couch was strewed with volumes of plays, to 
 which he had frequent recourse for amusement. I learned, 
 indeed, afterwards, that even at this time the thoughts of 
 God and eternity would often force themselves upon his 
 mind ; but not apprehending his life to be iu danger, and 
 trusting in the morality of his past ci)uduct, he found it no 
 difficult matter to thrust thcni out again.
 
 FIRST PERIOD OF HIS RESIDI;NCE AT OLNEY. 65 
 
 " As it pleased God that he had no relapse, he presently 
 began to recover strength, and in ten days' time I left him 
 so far restored, that he coiUd ride many miles witliout 
 fatigue, and had every symptom of returning health. It is 
 probable, however, that, though his recovery seemed per- 
 fect, this iUness was the means which God had appointed to 
 bring down his strength in the niidst of his journey, and to 
 hasten on the malady which proved his last. 
 
 " On the 16th of February, 1770, 1 was again summoned 
 to attend him, by letters which represented him as so ill, that 
 the physician entei'taiued but little hopes of his recovery. 
 I found him afflicted with the asthma and dropsy, supposed 
 to be the effect of an imposthume in his liver. He was, 
 however, cheerful when I first arrived, expressed great joy 
 at seeing me, thought himself much better than he had 
 been, and seemed to flatter himself with hopes that he 
 should be well again. My situation at this time was truly 
 distressfid. I learned from the physician, that, in this 
 instance as in the last, he was in much greater danger than 
 he suspected. He did not seem to lay his illness at aU to 
 heai't, nor could I find by his conversation that he had 
 one serious thought. As often as a suitable occasion 
 offered, when we were free from company and interruption, 
 I endeavoured to give a spiritual turn to the discourse ; 
 and the day after my an-ival, asked his permission to jiray 
 with him, to which he readily consented. I renewed my 
 attempts in this way as often as I could, though without 
 any apparent success : still he seemed as cai-eless and un- 
 concerned as ever : yet I could not but consider his willing- 
 ness in this instance as a token for good, and observed with 
 pleasure, that though at other times he discovered no mark 
 of seriousness, yet when I spoke to him of the Lord's deal- 
 ings with myself, he received what I said with affection, 
 would press my hand, and look kindly at me, and seemed 
 to love me the better for it. 
 
 " On the 21st of the same month he had a violent fit 
 of asthma, which seized him when he rose, about an hour 
 before noon, and lasted aU the day. His agony was dread- 
 ful. Having never seen any person afflicted in the same 
 way, I could not help fearing that he would be suffocated ; 
 
 F
 
 66 ' LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 nor was the physician himself without fears of the same 
 kind. This day the Lord was very present with me, and 
 enabled me, as I sat l)y the poor sufferer's side, to wrestle 
 for a blessing upon him. I observed to him, that though 
 it had pleased God to visit him with great afflictions, yet 
 mercy was mingled with the dispensation. I said, 'You 
 have many friends who love you, and are willing to do all 
 they can to serve you ; and so perhaps have others in the 
 like circumstances ; but it is not the lot of every sick man, 
 how much soever he may be beloved, to have a friend that 
 can pray for him.' He replied, ' That is true, and I hope 
 God will have mercy upon me.' His love for me from this 
 time became very remarkable ; there was a tenderness in it 
 more than was merely natural ; and he generally expressed 
 it by calling for blessings upon me in the most affectionate 
 terms, and with a look and manner not to be described. 
 
 " At night, when he was quite worn out with the fatigue 
 of labouring for breath, and could get no rest, his asthma 
 still continuing, he turiaed to me, and said, with a melan- 
 choly air, ' Brother, I seem to be marked out for misery ; 
 you know some people are so.' That moment I felt my 
 heart enlarged, and such a persuasion of the love of God 
 towards him was wrought in my soul, that I rephed with 
 confidence, and as if I had authority given me to say it, 
 ' But that is not your case ; you are marked out for mercy.' 
 
 " Through the whole of this most painful dispensation, 
 he was blest with a degree of patience and resignation to 
 the will of God, not always seen in the behaviour of esta- 
 blished Christians under sufferings so great as his. I never 
 heard a murmuring word escape him ; on the contrary, he 
 would often say, when his pains were most acute, ' I only 
 wish it may please God to enable me to suffer without com- 
 plaining ; I have no right to complain.' Once he said, 
 with a loud voice, ' Let thy rod and thy staff support and 
 comfort me :' and, ' O that it were with me as in times past, 
 when the candle of the Lord shone upon my tabernacle !' 
 One evening, when I had been expressing my hope that 
 the Lord would show him mercy, he replied : ' I hope he 
 will ; I am sure I pretend to nothing.' Many times he 
 spoke of himself in terms of the greatest self-abasement,
 
 FIRST PERIOD OF HIS RESIDENCE AT OLNET. 67 
 
 which I cannot now particularly remember. I thought I 
 could discern, in these expressions, the glimpses of ap- 
 proaching day ; and have no doubt at present but that the 
 Spirit of God was gradually preparing him, in a way of 
 true humiliation, for that bright display of gospel grace 
 which he was soon after pleased to aftbrd him. 
 
 " On Saturday, the 10th of ]\Iarch, about three in the 
 afternoon, he suddenly burst into tears, and said, with a 
 loud cry, 'Oh, forsake me not !' I went to his bedside, 
 when he grasped my hand, and presently, by his eyes and 
 countenance, I found that he was in prayer. Then turning 
 to me, he said, ' Oh, brother, I am full of what I could say 
 to you.' The nurse asked him if he would have any harts- 
 horn or lavender. He replied, ' None of these things will 
 serve my purpose.' I said, ' But I know what would, my 
 dear, don't I ?" He answered, ' You do, brother.' 
 
 "Having continued some time silent, he said, ' Behold, I 
 create new heavens and a new earth,' — then after a pause, 
 ' Aye, and he is able to do it, too.' 
 
 " I left him for about an hour, fearing lest he should 
 fatigue himself with talking, and because my surprise and 
 joy were so great, that I could hardly bear them. "When I 
 returned, he threw his arms about my neck, and leaning 
 his head against mine, he said, ' Brother, if I live, you and 
 I shall be more like one another than we have been. But, 
 whether I live or hve not, all is well, and will be so ; I 
 know it will ; I have felt that which I never felt before, 
 and am sure that God has visited me with this sickness, 
 to teach me what I was too proud to learn in health. I 
 never had satisfaction till now. The doctrines I had been 
 used to, referred me to myself for the foundation of my 
 hopes, and there I could find nothing to rest upon. The 
 sheet-anchor of the soul was wanting. I thouglit you 
 wrong, yet wished to believe as you did. I found myself 
 unable to believe, yet always thought that I should one 
 day be brought to do so. You suffered more than I have 
 done before you believed these truths ; but our suflferings, 
 though different in their kind and measure, were directed 
 to the same end. I hope he has taught me that which he 
 teaches none but his own. I hope so. These things were
 
 68 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 foolishness to me once, but now I have a firm foundation, 
 and am satisfied.' 
 
 "In the evening, when I went to bid him good night, 
 he looked stedfastly in my face, and with great solemnity 
 in his air and manner, taking me by the hand, resumed 
 the discourse in these very words. 'As empty, and yet 
 full ; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things ; — I 
 see the rock upon which I once split, and I see the rock of 
 my salvation. I have peace in myself ; and, if I live, I 
 hope it will be that I may be made a messenger of peace to 
 others. I have learned that in a moment, which I could 
 not have learned by reading many books for many years. 
 I have often studied these points, and studied them with 
 great attention, but was blinded by prejudice ; and, unless 
 He who alone is worthy to unloose the seals, had opened 
 the book to me, I had been blinded still. Now they appear 
 so plain, that, though I am convinced no comment could 
 ever have made me understand them, I wonder I did not 
 see them before. Yet, great as my doubts and difficulties 
 were, they have only served to pave the way ; and, being 
 solved, they make it plainer. The light I have received 
 comes late : but it is a comfort to me that I never made 
 Gospel- truths a subject of ridicule. Though I dissented 
 from the persuasion and the ways of God's people, I ever 
 thought them respectable, and therefore not proper to be 
 made a jest of The evil I suffer is the consequence of my 
 descent from the corrupt original stock, and of my own 
 personal transgressions ; the good I enjoy comes to me as 
 the overflowing of his bounty ; but the crown of all his 
 mercies is this, that he has given me a Saviour, and not 
 only the Saviour of mankind, brother, but my Saviour.' 
 
 " ' I should delight to sec the peoj^le at Olney, hut am 
 not worthy to appear amongst them.' He wept at speaking 
 these words, and repeated them with emphasis, ' I should 
 rejoice in an hour's conversation with Mr. Newton, and, if 
 I live, shall have much discourse with him upon these sub- 
 jects, but am so weak in body, that at present I could not 
 bear it.' 
 
 " At the same time he gave me to understand that he 
 had been five years inquiring after the truth, that is, from
 
 FIEST PERIOD OF HIS RESIDE^X'E AT OLNEY. 09 
 
 the time of my first visit to him after I left St. Alban's ; 
 and that, from the very day of his ordination, which was 
 ten years ago, he had been dissatisfied with his own views 
 of the Gospel, and sensible of defect and obscurity ; that 
 he had always had a sense of the importance of the minis- 
 terial charge, and had used to consider himself accountable 
 for his doctrine no less than his practice ; that he could 
 appeal to the Lord for his sincerity in all that time, and 
 had never wilfully erred, but always been desirous of coming 
 to the knowledge of the truth. He added, that the moment 
 when he sent forth that cry, was the moment when hght 
 was darted into his soul ; that he had thought much about 
 these things in the course of his illness, but never till that 
 instant was able to understand them. 
 
 " It was remarkable, that, from the very instant when 
 he was first enlightened, he was also wonderfully strength- 
 ened in body, so that from the 10th to the 14th of March 
 we all entertained hopes of his recovery. He was himself 
 very sanguine in his expectations of it, but frequently said, 
 that his desire of recovery extended no farther than his 
 hopes of usefulness ; adding, ' Unless I may live to be an 
 instrument of good to othere, it were better for me to die 
 now.' 
 
 " As his assurance was clear and unshaken, so he was 
 very sensible of the goodness of the Lord to him in that 
 respect. On the day when his eyes were opened, he turned 
 to me, and in a low voice said, ' What a mercy it is for a 
 man in my condition to knoio his acceptance ! I am com- 
 pletely satisfied of mine.' On another occasion, speaking to 
 the same purpose, he said, ' This bed would be a bed of 
 misery, and it is so ; but it is likewise a bed of joy and a 
 bed of discipline. Were I to die this night, I know I shoiUd 
 be happy. This assurance, I hope, is quite consistent with 
 the word of God. It is built upon a sense of my own utter 
 insufficiency, and the all-sufficiency of Chi-ist.' At the same 
 time, he said, ' Brother, I have been buildingmy glory upon 
 a sandy foimdation ; I have laboured night and day to per- 
 fect myself in things of no profit ; I have sacrificed my 
 health to these pursuits, and am now suft'ering the conse- 
 quences of my mis-spent labour. But how contemptible do
 
 70 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 the wi-iters I once highly valued now appear to me ! ' Yea, 
 doubtless, I count all things loss and dung, for the excellency 
 of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord.' I must go to a 
 new school. I have many things to learn. I succeeded in 
 my former pursuits. I wanted to be highly applauded, and 
 I was so. I was flattered up to the height of my wishes : 
 now, I must learn a new lesson.' 
 
 " On the evening of the thirteenth he said, ' What com- 
 fort have I in this bed, miserable as I seem to be ! Brother, 
 I love to look at you. I see now who was right, and who 
 was mistaken. But it seems wonderful that such a dis- 
 pensation should be necessary to enforce what seems so 
 very jjlain. I wish myself at Olney ; you have a good 
 river there, better than all the rivers of Damascus. What 
 a scene is passing before me ! Ideas upon these subjects 
 crowd upon me faster than I can give them utterance. 
 How plain do many texts appear, to which, after con- 
 sulting aU the commentators, I could hardly affix a mean- 
 ing. Now I have their true meaning, Avithout any comment 
 at all. There is but one key to the New Testament ; there 
 is but one interpreter. I cannot describe to you, nor shall 
 ever be able to describe, what I felt in the moment when 
 it was given to me. May I make a good use of it. How I 
 shudder when I tliink of the danger I have just escaped ! 
 I had made up my mind upon these subjects, and was 
 determined to hazard all upon the justness oif my own 
 opinions.' 
 
 " Speaking of his illness, he said he had been followed 
 night and day, from the very beginning of it, with this 
 text, / shall not die, hut live, and declare the ivorks of the 
 Lord. This notice was fulfilled to him, though not in 
 such a sense as my desires of his recovery prompted me to 
 put upon it. 
 
 " His remarkable amendment soon appeared to be no 
 more than a present supply of strength and spirits, that 
 he might be able to speak of the better hfe which God 
 had given him ; which was no sooner done, than he re- 
 lapsed as suddenly as he had revived. About this time he 
 formed the purpose of receiving the sacrament, induced to 
 it principally by a desire of setting his seal to the truth, in
 
 FIRST rERIOD OF HIS RESIDENCE AT OLNEY. 71 
 
 presence of those who were strangei's to the change which 
 had taken place in his sentiments. It must have been 
 administered to him by the Master of the College, to whom 
 he designed to have made this short declaration : ' If I 
 die, I the ili the belief of the doctrines of the Reformation, 
 and of the Church of England as it was at the time of the 
 Reformation.' But his strength declining apace, and his 
 pains becoming more severe, he could never find a proper 
 opportunity of doing it. His experience was rather peace 
 than joy,— if a distinction may be made between joy and 
 that heart-felt peace which he often spoke of in the most 
 comfortable terms, and which he expressed by a heavenly 
 smile upon his countenance under the bitterest bodily 
 distress. His words uj^on this subject once were these, — 
 ' How wonderful is it that God should look upon man, 
 especially that he should look upon vie ! Yet he sees me, 
 and takes notice of all that I suffer. I see him, too : he is 
 present before me, and I hear him say. Come unto me, aU 
 ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you 
 rest.' (Matt. xi. 28.) On the fourteenth, in the afternoon, 
 I perceived that the strength and spirits which had been 
 afforded him were suddenly withdrawn, so that by the 
 next day his mind became weak, and his speech roving and 
 faltering. But still, at intervals, he was enabled to speak 
 of divine things with great force and clearness. On the 
 evening of the fifteenth he said, ' There is more joy in 
 heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety 
 and nine just persons who need no repentance. That text 
 has been sadly misunderstood by me, as well as by others. 
 Where is that just person to be found % Alas, what must 
 have become of me, if I had died this day se'n-night ? 
 What should I have had to plead ? j\Iy own righteous- 
 ness ] That would have been of great service to me, to be 
 sure ! Well, whither next % Why, to the mountains to 
 fall upon us, and to the hills to cover us ! I am not duly 
 thankful for the mercy I have received. Pei'haps I may 
 ascribe some part of my insensibility to my great weakness 
 of body. I hope, at least, that, if I was better in health, it 
 would be better with me in these respects also.' 
 
 " The next day, perceiving that his understanding began
 
 72 LIFE OF WILLIAM CO^\TER. 
 
 to suffer by the extreme weakness of his body, he said, ' I 
 have been vain of my understanding and of my acquire- 
 ments in this place ; and now God has made me Httle 
 better than an idiot, as much as to say, ' Now be proud if 
 you can.' Well, while I have any senses left, my thoughts 
 will be poured out in the praise of God. I have an interest 
 in Christ, in his blood and sufferings, and my sins are 
 forgiven me. Have I not cause to praise him ? "When 
 my understanding fails me quite, as I think it wiU soon, 
 then he will pity my weakness.' 
 
 " Though the Lord intended that his warfare should be 
 short, yet a warfare he was to have, and to be exposed to a 
 measure of conflict with his own corruptions. His pain 
 being extreme, his powers of recoUectiou much impaired, 
 and the Comforter withholding for a season his sensible 
 support, he was betrayed into a fretfulness and impatience 
 of sj^irit which had never been permitted to show itself 
 before. This ap])earance alarmed me ; and, having an 
 op23ortunity afforded me by everybody's absence, I said to 
 him, ' You were happier last Saturday than you are to-day. 
 Are you entirely destitute of the consolations you then 
 spoke of ? And do you not sometimes feel comfort flowing 
 into your heart from a sense of your acceptance with 
 God ? ' He replied, ' Sometimes I do, but sometimes I am 
 left to desperation.' The same day, in the evening, he 
 said, ' Brother, I believe you are often uneasy, lest what 
 lately passed should come to nothing.' I replied by asking 
 him whether, when he found his patience and his temper 
 fail, he endeavoured to pray for power against his cor- 
 ruptions ? He answered, ' Yes, a thousand times in a 
 day. But I see myself odiously vile and wicked. If I die 
 in this ilhiess, I beg you will place no other inscription 
 over me than such as may just mention my name, and the 
 parish where I was minister ; for that I ever had a being, 
 and what sort of a being I had, cannot be too soon forgot. 
 I was just beginning to be a deist, and had long desired to 
 be so ; and I will own to you, what I never confessed 
 before, that my function, and the duties of it, were a 
 weariness to me which I could not bear. Yet, wretched 
 creature and beast as I was, I was esteemed religious,
 
 nRST PERIOD OF HIS RESIDENCE AT OLNEY. / -i 
 
 thougli I lived ^\dthoiit God in the world.' About this 
 time, I reminded him of the account of Janeway, which he 
 once read at my desire. He said he had laughed at it in 
 his own mind, and accounted it mere madness and folly : 
 ' Yet, base as I am,' said he, ' I have no doubt now but God 
 has accepted me, also, and forgiven me all my sins.' 
 
 "I then asked him what he thought of my narrative ? 
 He replied, ' I thought it strange, and ascribed much of it 
 to the state which you had been in. AVhen I came to visit 
 you in London, and found you in that deep distress, I 
 would have given the universe to have administered some 
 comfort to you. You may remember that I tried every 
 method of doing it. When I found that all my attempts 
 were vain, I was shocked to the greatest degree. I began 
 to consider your sufferings as a judgment upon you, and 
 my inability to alleviate them as a judgment upon myself. 
 When Mr. Madan came, he succeeded in a moment. This 
 surprised me ; but it does not surprise me now. He had 
 the key to your heart, which I had not. That which filled 
 me with disgust against my office as a minister was, the 
 same ill success which attended me in my own parish. 
 There I endeavoured to soothe the afflicted, and to refoi-m 
 the unruly by warning and reproof ; but all that I could 
 say in either case was spoken to the wind, and attended 
 with no eftect.' 
 
 "There is that in the nature of salvation by grace, 
 when it is truly and experimentally known, which prompts 
 every person to think himself the most extraordinary 
 instance of its power. Accordingly, my brother insisted 
 upon the precetlence in this respect ; and, upon comparing 
 his case with mine, would by no means allow my deUver- 
 ance to have been so wonderful as his own. He observed 
 that, ' from the beginning, both his manner of life and his 
 connexions had been such as had a natural tendency to 
 bhnd his eyes, and to confirm and rivet his prejudices 
 against the truth. Blameless in his outward conduct, and 
 having no open immorality to charge himself with, his 
 acquaintance had been with men of the same stamp, who 
 trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and des- 
 pised the doctrines of the cross. Such were aU who, from
 
 74 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 his earliest days, he had been used to propose to himself 
 as patterns for his imitation.' Not to go further back, 
 such was the clergyman under whom he received the first 
 rudiments of his education ; such was the schoolmaster 
 under whom he was prepared for the university ; and such 
 were all the most admired characters there with whom he 
 was most ambitious of being connected. He lamented the 
 dark and Chiustless condition of the place, where learning 
 and morality were all in all, and where, if a man was 
 possessed of these qualifications, he neither doubted him- 
 self, nor did anybody else question, the safety of his state. 
 He concluded, therefore, that to show the fallacy of such 
 appearances, and to root out the prejudices which long 
 familiarity with them had fastened upon his mind, re- 
 quired a more than ordinary exertion of divine power ; 
 and that the grace of God was more clearly manifested in 
 such a work than in the conversion of one like me, who 
 had no outside righteousness to boast of, and who, if I was 
 ignorant of the truth, was not, however, so desperately 
 prejudiced against it. 
 
 " His thoughts, I suppose, had been led to this subject, 
 when one afternoon, w^hile I was writing by the fireside, he 
 thus addressed himself to the nurse, who sat at his bolster, 
 — ' Nurse, I have lived three-and-thirty years, and I will 
 tell you how I have spent them. "WTien I was a boy, they 
 taught me Latin ; and because I was the son of a gentle- 
 man, they taught me Greek. These I learned under a sort 
 of private tutor. At the age of fourteen, or thereabouts, 
 they sent me to a public school, where I learned more 
 Latin and Greek ; and, last of all, to this place, where I have 
 been learning more Latin and Greek still. Now has not 
 this been a blessed life, and much to the glory of God V 
 Then directing his sj^eech to me, he said, ' Brother, I was 
 going to say I was born in such a year, but I correct my- 
 self ; I would i-ather stxy, in such a year I came mto the 
 world. You know when I was born.' 
 
 "As long as he expected to recover, the souls com- 
 mitted to his care were much vqion his mind. One day, 
 when none were present but myself, he prayed thus : ' O 
 Lord, thou art good, goodness is thy very essence, and thou
 
 FIEST PERIOD OP HLS RESIDENCE AT OLNET. 75 
 
 art the fountain of wisdom. I am a poor worm, weak and 
 foolish as a child. Thou hast intrusted many souls unto 
 me ; and I have not been able to teach them, because I 
 knew thee not myself. Grant me ability, O Lord, for I 
 can do nothing without thee, and give me grace to be 
 faithful' 
 
 " In a time of severe and continual pain he smiled in 
 my face, and said, ' Brother, I am as happy as a king.' And 
 the day before he died, when I asked him what sort of a 
 night he had had, he replied, ' A sad night, not a wink of 
 sleep.' I said, ' Perhaps, though, your mind has been 
 composed, and you have been enabled to pray 1 ' ' Yes,' 
 said he, ' I have endeavoured to spend the hours in the 
 thoughts of God and prayer ; I have been much com- 
 forted, and all the comfort I got came to me in this way.' 
 
 " The next morning I was called up to be witness of his 
 last moments. I found him in a deep sleep, lying per- 
 fectly stiU, and seemingly free from pain. I stayed with 
 him till they pressed ine to quit the room, and in about 
 five minutes after I left him he died ; sooner, indeed, than 
 I expected, though for some days there had been no hopes 
 of his recoveiy. His death at that time was rather extra- 
 ordinary — at least, I thought it so ; for when I took leave 
 of him the night before, he did not seem worse or weaker 
 than he had been, and, for aught that appeared, might 
 have lasted many days ; but the Lord, in whose sight the 
 death of his saints is precious, cut short his sufferings, and 
 gave him a speedy and peaceful departure. 
 
 "He died at seven in the morning, on the 20th of 
 March, 1770." 
 
 The value of this record of the death-bed of a scholar 
 and a professing Christian, who, till within a lev/ days of his 
 departure, was practically " without God, and without hope 
 in the world," will surely be admitted ; — more especially 
 when the writer is William Cowper. 
 
 Cowper's correspondence with his friends, at this period, 
 seems to have been very trivial in amount. His most valued 
 companions, INlrs. Unwin and Mr. Newton, were ever in his 
 sight. His occupations, as an unwearied assistant to his
 
 76 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 friend Mr. Newton, were abundant. He was an active 
 visitor of the poor, having the assistance of Mr. Thornton's 
 purse. He was, also, in every other way, a help to his 
 friend, with the single exception of the public services of the 
 Church. Mr. Newton says of him, — " He loved the poor. 
 He often visited them in their cottages, conversed with 
 them in the most condescending manner, sympathized with 
 them, counselled and comforted them in their distresses ; 
 and those who were seriously disposed, were often cheered 
 and animated by his prayers." Meanwhile, Lady Hesketh 
 was abroad, and with his other relatives he had little inter- 
 course. His attached friend and adviser, Mr. Hill, seems 
 never to have lost sight of him ; but Cowjier's notes to him 
 at this period are very brief The following may be given 
 without remark : — 
 
 " Okicy, Sept. 25, ] 770. 
 
 " Dear Joe, — I have not done conversing with terrestrial 
 objects, though I should be happy were I able to hold more 
 continual converse with a Friend above the skies. He has 
 my heart, but he allows a corner in it for all who show me 
 kindness, and therefore one for you. The storm of sixty- 
 three made a wreck of the friendships I had contracted in 
 the course of many years, yours excepted, which has sur- 
 vived the tempest. 
 
 " I thank you for your repeated invitation. Singular 
 thanks are due to you for so singular an instance of your 
 regard. I could not leave Olney, unless in a case of abso- 
 lute necessity, without much inconvenience to myself and 
 others. 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 " Olneij, August 27, 1771. 
 " Dear Joe, — I take a friend's share in all your concerns, 
 so far as they come to my knowledge, and consequently did 
 not receive the news of your marriage with indifference. I 
 wish you and your bride all the happiness that belongs to 
 the state ; and the still greater felicity of that state which 
 marriage is only a type of All those connexions shall be 
 dissolved ; but there is an indissoluble bond between Christ
 
 FIRST PERIOD OF IILS RESIDENCE AT OLNICY. / 7 
 
 and his Church, the subject of derision to an unthinkmg 
 world, but the gloiy and happiness of all his j^eople. 
 
 " I join with your mother and sisters in their joy upon 
 the present occasion, and beg my affectionate respects to 
 them, and to IMrs. Hill, unkno-WTi. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 " Oliwy, June 27, 1772. 
 " I^Iy dear Friend, — I only wi-ite to return you thanks 
 for your kind offer — Agnosco veteris vestigia fiammce. But 
 I will endeavour to go on without troubling you. Excuse 
 an expression that dishonours your friendship ; I should 
 rather say, it would be a trouble to myself, and I know you 
 will be generous enough to give me credit for the assertion. 
 I had rather want many things, anything, indeed, that this 
 world could afford me, than abuse the affection of a friend. 
 I suppose you are sometimes troubled upon my account. 
 But you need not. I have no doubt it will be seen, when 
 my days are closed, that I served a Master who would not 
 suffer me to want anything that was good for me. He said 
 to Jacob, * I will surely do thee good ;' and this he said, 
 not for his sake only, but for ours also, if we trust in him. 
 This thought relieves me from the greatest jjart of the 
 distress I should else suffer in my present circumstances, 
 and enables me to sit down peacefully upon the wreck of 
 my fortune. 
 
 " Yours ever, my dear friend, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 " Olney, Nov. 5, 1772. 
 
 " Believe me, my dear friend, truly sensible of your in- 
 vitation, though I do not accept it. My peace of mind is 
 of so delicate a constitution that the air of London will not 
 agree with it. You have my pi-aycrs, the only return I can 
 make you for your many acts of still-continued friendship. 
 
 " If you shovdd smile or even laugh at my conclusion, 
 and I were near enough to see it, I should not be angiy, 
 though I shoidd be grieved. It is not long since I should
 
 78 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 have laughed at such a recompence myself. But, glory be 
 to the name of Jesus, those days are past, and, I trust, 
 never to return ! 
 
 " I am yours, and ]\Irs. Hill's, 
 
 " With much sincerity, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 But we are now brought to the close of this brief 
 period of sunshine and peace. About the time at which 
 we have now arrived, Cowjier had been induced to join Mr. 
 Ne^^i^on in " a literary undertaking, congenial with his taste, 
 and suited to his admirable talents." Mr. N. had felt the 
 want, more pressing in that day than now, of a book of 
 hymns, suited both to pubhc worship and to private de- 
 votional meetings. He proposed to Cowper to join him in 
 the production of such a volume, and it was not difficult to 
 gain the poet's assent. The volume was not completed 
 until 1779 : but we must assume that Co\\-per's part in it 
 was completed before his renewed attack of mental disease, 
 which took place in 1773. 
 
 The nature of the attack was generally similar to those 
 under which he had formerly suffered. Of his depression at 
 the age of twenty-one, soon after his settlement in the 
 Temple, he says — 
 
 " I was struck with such a dejection of spirits, as none 
 but they who have felt the same can have the least con- 
 cei>tion of. Day and night I was on the rack, lying down 
 in horror, and rising up in despair^ 
 
 And this was at a time when " hfe was young," and 
 when hopes and pleasures of every kind were opening 
 before him. 
 
 Of his more serious illness, in 1763, he says, — 
 
 " The accuser of the brethren was ever busy with me, 
 night and day, bringing to my recollection in dreams the 
 commission of long-forgotten sins, and charging upon my 
 conscience things of an indifferent nature as atrocious 
 crimes." 
 
 Thus, mental delusion constituted the basis of his disease, 
 in the two attacks which he had suffered before he knew
 
 FIRST PERIOD OF HIS RESIDENCE AT OLNEY. 79 
 
 anything of religion. But altliough he was fully aware of 
 this, it furnished no safeguard against his falling under the 
 power of mental delusion again. 
 
 A dozen years afterwards he himself describes, in a 
 letter to Lady Heskcth, the nature of the present attack : — 
 
 " Knt)w, then, that in the year 1773, the same scene 
 that was acted at St. Alban's opened upon me again at 
 Olney, only covered with a still deeper shade of melan- 
 choly, and ordained to be of longer duration. I was sud- 
 denly reduced from my wonted rate of understanding to 
 an almost childish imbecility. I did, not, indeed, lose my 
 senses, but I lost the power to exercise them. I could 
 return a rational answer, even to a difficult question ; but a 
 question was necessary, or I never spoke at all. This 
 state of mind was accompanied, as I suppose it to be in 
 most instances of the kind, with misappi-ehensions of things 
 and persons, which made me a very untractable patient. I 
 believed that everybody hated me, and that ]\Irs.Unwin hated 
 me most of all ; — was convinced that my food was poisoned, 
 together with ten thousand meagrims of the same stamp." 
 
 The nature of the illness, then, was sul^stantially the 
 same as in the former cases. It was but the return of a 
 disease to which, from his youth, he had been liable. 
 Still, most persons who have dealt with the subject have 
 thought it needful to assign some cause for the recurrence 
 of the disorder. The most usually assigned cause is that 
 of "Methodism ;" — of the gloomy character of his religious 
 associates and habits, and especially the particular work, 
 the Olney Hymns, which he then had in hand. 
 
 Now we cannot admit that a biographer of Co^^1)er is 
 called upon to aesign any cause at all for this particular 
 instance of his mental disorder. No one has attempted 
 to account for the deep dejection of 1752 — an attack far 
 more destitute of any apparent cause than those in later 
 life. And when in the heyday of youth, and with all the 
 hopes and joys of opening manhood before hiui, this dis- 
 order is seen to take possession of his mind, what necessity 
 can there be to attempt to assign a distinct cause for its re- 
 turn in after years, when blighted hopes and failing health 
 evidently aided its approaches ?
 
 80 LIFE OF WILLIAM! COWPER. 
 
 AVith reference to the cause most commonly assigned — 
 his religious views and occupations — or to another which 
 has been recently advanced with much confidence, the de- 
 pressing character of the Olney scenery — we would not 
 deny to either of these circumstances some share in pro- 
 ducing the melancholy under w^hich the poet suffered ; 
 but we deem it most irrational to treat either of them as 
 the sole or the principal cause. Ohiey and its vicinity ought 
 neither to be described as among the best nor the worst 
 specimens of the rural scenery of England. Co\A'j>er's o\vn 
 writings abound Avith proofs that much natural beauty 
 is to be found on the banks of the Ouse. As to the com- 
 plaint of being confined to the house for seven months in 
 the year, it is plainly the language of a mind not in a 
 healthy tone. On the banks of a small meandering stream 
 there must often be damps, and fogs, and marshy places. But 
 in England there always occur, even in the most unwhole- 
 some seasons, weeks and mouths of dry and open weather, 
 when, in March or in October, or even in .January, the frosty 
 air renders exercise both pleasant and health-giving. To say 
 that Cowper, although only in his forty-second year, shrank 
 from these winterly breezes, is merely to say that his health 
 was not properly attended to. But, then, let not the sj)ot 
 in which he had chosen to reside be blamed for a seclusion 
 which was more a choice thaii a necessity. 
 
 As to the cause which is more frequently assigned, we 
 can only admit its truth to this extent ; — that being pre- 
 disposed to mental delusion, and self-accasation, it might 
 have been indiscreet to encourage the poet to ponder much 
 on his own personal experience. One of the Olney Hymns 
 betrays the nature of the danger. 
 
 " The Lord will happiness di\'ine 
 On contrite hearts bestow : 
 Then tell me, gracious God, is mine 
 A contrite heai't, or no ? 
 
 I hear, but seem to hear in vain, 
 
 Insensible as steel : 
 If aught is felt, 'tis only pain 
 
 To tiud I cannot feel.
 
 FIRST PERIOD OF HIS RESIDENCE AT OLNEY. 81 
 
 I sometimes think myself inclin'd 
 
 To love thee if I coiild ; 
 But often feel another mind, 
 
 Averse to all that's good. 
 
 My hest desires are faint and few, 
 
 I fain would strive for more ; 
 But when I cry, ' My strength renew,' 
 
 Seem weaker than before. 
 
 Thy saints are comfoi'ted, I know. 
 
 And love thy house of prayer ; 
 I therefore go where others go, 
 But find no comfortthere. 
 
 O make this heart rejoice or ache ! 
 
 Decide this doubt for me ; 
 And if it be not broken, break ; 
 
 And heal it, if it be ! " 
 
 It is the almost universal testimony of earnest Christians 
 that the Tempter is ever on the watch to found, on a con • 
 sciousness of unworthiness, arguments tending to despair. 
 And if this be a real peril to men of sound and healthy 
 minds, how much greater must have been the danger to 
 one who, at two former periods of his life, had been fiUed 
 with " horror and despair." We can therefore agree with 
 Southey just so far as this ! — that " in composing the Olney 
 Hymns he was led to brood over his own sensations in a 
 way which rendered him peculiarly liable to be deluded by 
 them." Hence, on the whole, while we neither believe that 
 his iUness was caused by Olney damps, nor by his " re- 
 ligious views," we are still quite ready to admit, that 
 the flatness and monotony of u viUage life, and the pecu- 
 liar sort of contemplations which the Olney Hymns sug- 
 gested, might conduce to help on an attack of hypochon- 
 di'iasis which it is absurd to adduce them as causing.
 
 82 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 SECOND ATTACK OF MENTAL ABERRATION — 
 GRADUAL RECOVERY— HIS POEMS. 
 
 A.D. 1773—1785. 
 
 Cowper's last letter to his faithful friend Hill, before the 
 outburst of his second, and, perhaps, the worst of aU his 
 mental illnesses, was dated in November, 1772. It turns 
 chiefly upon pecuniary afiFairs — debt, and the means of 
 clearing off debt. Few of his biographers have attached 
 any importance to this circumstance. Yet it is probable 
 that anxieties of this kind, both now and in 1763, had no 
 inconsiderable share in bringing the disorder to a crisis. 
 A single circumstance, occurring in his correspondence 
 with Mr. Hill, shows to what an extent these anxieties 
 had reached. He actually proposes, in one of these letters, 
 to increase his income by taking pupils. To many men 
 this would have been nothing ; but to Cowper it must 
 have been an unendurable drudgery. The idea was quickly 
 abandoned. 
 
 We mean not that his straitened circumstances were the 
 sole or the chief cause of his illness ; but that, other things 
 tending to the same result, pecuniary cares conduced to 
 bring on actual insanity. We believe that any one who 
 has had any experience in similar cases, will readily admit 
 the probability of our supposition. We apprehend that if 
 the circumstances of all the patients in our lunatic asylums 
 were carefully investigated, it would be found that a very 
 large proportion might be traced to pecuniary anxieties. A 
 tendency to melancholy was, probably, in such cases, a 
 constitutional weakness. Some degree of ill health in-
 
 SECOND ATTxVCR OF MENTAL ABERRATION. 83 
 
 creased this tendency ; and when alarms as to the means 
 of subsistence came to be added to these previous bur- 
 dens, the system gave way, and the mind became dis- 
 ordered. 
 
 It was at the commencement of 1773 that the mind of 
 Cowper entirely succumbed to disease, and gloomy fancies 
 began to possess him, some of which must be regarded as 
 direct suggestions of the Tempter. Such, for instance, as 
 the notion which at one time possessed him, that it was the 
 Divine will that he should imitate Abraiam's faith, and 
 offer up a sacrifice, and that that sacrifice should be him- 
 self. And when the Divine Providence overruled this 
 temptation, and frustrated the attempt which he made to 
 obey the supposed command, the Evil One immediately 
 injected into his mind the fresh falsehood, that, having 
 failed to obey the wiU of God, he was now sentenced to a 
 state of desertion and perpetual misery, of a kind pecuUar 
 to himself. He sank, says Mr. Greatheed, into a state of 
 utter hopelessness, — " an unalterable persuasion, that the 
 Lord, after having renewed him in holiness, had doomed 
 him to everlasting perdition. The doctrines in which he 
 had been established directly opposed such a conclusion, 
 and he remained stiU equally convinced of this general 
 truth ; but he supposed himself to be the only person that 
 ever believed with the heart vmto righteousness, and was 
 notwithstanding excluded from salvation. In this state of 
 mind, with a deplorable consistency, he ceased not only 
 from attendance vipon public and domestic worship, but 
 likewise from every attempt at private prayer ; apprehend- 
 ing that for him to implore mercy, would be opposing the 
 determinate counsel of God." 
 
 Under this impression, writing to Mr. Bull, of Newport 
 Pagnel, some years after this, Cowper says, in answer to 
 Mr. Bull's entreaties, that he would again join with the 
 people of God in acts of worship and of praise : — 
 
 " Both your advice, and your manner of giving it, are 
 gentle and friendly, and like yourself. I thank you for 
 them, and do not refuse your counsel because I dislike it, 
 but because it is not for me. There is not a vian upon 
 earth that might not be the better for it — myself ordy exce'pted.
 
 84 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Prove to me that I have a right to pray, and I will pray 
 without ceasing ; yes, and praise too, even in the belly of 
 this hell, compared with which Jonah's was a palace, a 
 temple of the living God. But let me add, there is no 
 encouragement in the Scripture so comprehensive as to 
 include my case, nor any consolation so eftectual as to reach 
 it. I do not relate it to you, because you could not beheve 
 it ; you would agree with me if you could ; and yet the sin 
 by which I am excluded from the privileges I once enjoyed, 
 you would account no sin. You would even tell me it was 
 my duty. This is strange ; you wiU think me mad — but I 
 am not mad, most noble Festus, I am only in desjiair ; and 
 those powers of mind which I possess are only permitted 
 me for my amusement sometimes, and to acuminate and 
 enhance my misery at others." 
 
 In March, 1773, he was prevailed upon to leave his own 
 dwelling, and to spend a day at the vicarage. While there 
 he suddenly determined to stay ; and actually remained in 
 Mr. Newton's house, an uninvited, undesii'ed guest, for 
 more than fourteen months. During this long period this 
 faithful friend most sedulously watched over him, although 
 naturally feeling the charge a most onerous one ; the state 
 of his mind, for the greater part of this period, rendering it 
 undesirable that his host should be much absent from 
 his side. Writing to Mr. Thornton, Mr. N. says : — 
 
 " Mr. Co-\vpei-'s long stay at the vicarage, in his present 
 uncomfoi-table state, has been, upon many accounts, incon- 
 venient and tr}nng. His choice of being here was quite 
 unexpected ; and his continuance is uuavoidaljle, unless he 
 was to be removed by force. Mrs. Unwin has often tried 
 to persuade him to return to their own house, but he can- 
 not bear to hear of it. He sometimes begs, and weeps, and 
 pleads to stay with such earnestness, that it must be sub- 
 mitted to. I make myself easy by reflecting that the 
 Lord's hand is concerned, and I am hoping weekly for his 
 deliverance. His health is better ; he works almost inces- 
 santly in the garden, and while employed is tolerably easy ; 
 but as soon as he leaves off he is instantly swallowed up by 
 the most gloomy apprehensions ; though in everything that 
 does not concern his own peace he is as sensible, and dis-
 
 GRADUAI; RECOVERY. 85 
 
 covers as quick a judgment, as ever. The Lord evidently 
 sent him to Ohiey, where he has been a blessing to many, 
 a great blessing to myself. The Lord has numbered the 
 days in which I am appointed to wait upon him in this 
 dark valley, and he has given us siich a love to him, both 
 as a believei- and as a friend, that I am not weary ; but, to 
 be sure, his deliverance would be to me one of the greatest 
 blessings my thoughts can conceive." 
 
 In the course of a fortnight after this letter was 
 written, the first symptom of amendment w^as perceived. 
 
 " Yesterday, as he was feeding the chickens," ISIr. New- 
 ton says — " for he is always busy if he can get out of doors 
 — some little incident made him smile ; I am pretty sure 
 it was the first smile that has been seen upon his face for 
 more than sixteen months. I hope the continuance of air 
 and exercise will, by the Lord's blessing, gradually lighten 
 the cloud which hangs upon his mind. I have no right to 
 comi^lain ; my mercies are many and great, my trials com- 
 paratively few ; yet surely this affair, taken in all its cir- 
 cumstances, has been such a heavy trial to me, that had 
 not I seen the Lord's hand in it, and had not his hand been 
 with me likewise, I surely should have laboured to shake it 
 ofi" before now. But when it first began, I prayed the Lord 
 that I might not be weary. Hitherto he has helped ; and 
 however dark the path may grow, so long as it appears to 
 me to be the path of duty, I dare not decline it." 
 
 At last, about the end of ]May, 1774, with the same 
 suddenness and precipitation which marked his first resolve 
 to take up his abode at the vicarage, he hastily determined 
 to return to his own house. He now began, also, to amuse 
 himself occasionally with scraps of desultory composition. 
 But a chief means of obtaining relief was found in the 
 possession of two or three hai'es, which were sent to him 
 by compassionate neighbours about this time, with a view 
 to afford him amusement and occupation. In a letter 
 subsequently written by him, and which appeared in the 
 " Gentleman's Magazine," he thus described this interest- 
 ing, though tri%nal, incident in his singular life : — 
 
 " In the year 1774, being much indisposed both in mind 
 and body, incapable of diverting myself either with com-
 
 86 LIFE OF WILUAM COWPER. 
 
 pany or books, and yet in a condition that made some 
 diversion necessary, I was glad of anything that would 
 engage my attention without fatiguing it. The children 
 of a neighbour of mine had a leveret given them for a 
 plaything ; it was at that time about three months old. 
 Understanding better how to tease the poor creature than 
 to feed it, and soon becoming weary of their charge, they 
 readily consented that their father, who saw it pining and 
 growing leaner every day, should offer it to my acceptance. 
 I was willing enough to take the prisoner under my pro- 
 tection, perceiving that, in the management of such an 
 animal, and in the attempt to tame it, I should find just 
 that sort of employment which my case required. It 
 was soon known among the neighbours that I was pleased 
 with the present, and the consequence was, that in a short 
 time I had as many leverets offered to me as would have 
 stocked a paddock. I undertook the care of three, which it 
 is necessary that I should here distinguish by the names I 
 gave them — Riss, Tiney, and Bess. Notwithstanding the 
 two feminine appellatives, I must inform you that they 
 were all males. Immediately commencing carpenter, I 
 built them houses to sleep in ; each had a separate apart- 
 ment, so contrived that their ordure would pass through 
 the bottom of it ; an earthen pan placed under each re- 
 ceived whatsoever fell, which being duly emptied and 
 washed, they were thus kept perfectly sweet and clean. In 
 the daytime they had the range of a hall, and at night re- 
 tired each to his own bed, never intruding into that of 
 another. 
 
 " Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, 
 raise himself upon his hinder feet, and bite the hair from 
 my temples. He would suffer me to take him up, and to 
 carry him about in my arms, and has more than once fallen 
 fast asleep upon my knee. He was ill three days, during 
 which time I nursed him, kept him apart from his fellows, 
 that they might not molest him, (for, like many other 
 wild animals, they persecute one of their own species that 
 is sick), and by constant care, and trying him with a variety 
 of horbs, restored him to perfect health. No creature 
 could be more grateful than my patient after his recovery ;
 
 GRADUAL RECOVERY. 87 
 
 a sentiment which he most significantly expressed by 
 licking my hand, first the back of it, then the palm, then 
 every finger separately, then between all the fingers, as if 
 anxious to leave no part of it iinsalutcd ; a ceremony 
 which he never performed but once again upon a similar 
 occasion. Finding him extremely tractable, I made it my 
 custom to carry him always after breakfast into the garden, 
 where he hid himself generally under the leaves of a 
 cucumber-vine, sleeping or chewing the cud till evening ; 
 in the leaves also of that vine he found a favourite repast. 
 I had not long habituated him to this taste of liberty, 
 before he began to be impatient for the return of the time 
 when he might enjoy it. He would invite me to the garden 
 by drumming upon my knee, and by a look of such ex- 
 pression, as it was not possible to misinterpret. If this 
 rhetoric did not immediately succeed, he would take the 
 skirt of my coat between his teeth, and pull it with all his 
 force. Thus Puss might be said to be perfectly tamed, the 
 shyness of his nature was done away, and on the whole it 
 was visible, by many symptoms which I have not room to 
 enumerate, that he was happier in human society than 
 when shut vip with his natural companions. 
 
 " Not so Tiney ; upon him the kindest treatment had 
 not the least effect. He too was sick, and in his sickness 
 had an equal share of my attention ; but if after his re- 
 covery I took the liberty to stroke him, he would grunt, 
 strike with his fore feet, spring forward, and bite. He was 
 however, very entertaining in his way ; even his surliness 
 was matter of mirth, and in his play he preserved such an 
 air of gravity, and performed his feats with such a solem- 
 nity of manner, that in him too I had an agreeable com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Bess, who died soon after he was fuU grown, and 
 whose death was occasioned by his being turned into his 
 box, which had been washed, while it was yet damp, was 
 a hare of great humour and drollery. Puss was tamed by 
 gentle usage ; Tiney was not to be tamed at all ; and Bess 
 had a courage and confidence that made him tame from 
 the beginning. I always admitted them into the parlour
 
 88 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 after supper, when, the carpet affording their feet a firm 
 hold, they would frisk, and bound, and play a thousand 
 gambols, in which Bess, being remarkably strong and fear- 
 less, was always superior to the rest, and proved himself 
 the Vestris of the party. One evening, the cat being in the 
 room, had the hardiness to pat Bess upon the cheek ; an 
 indignity which he resented by drumming upon her back 
 with such violence that the cat was happy to escape from 
 under his paws, and hide herself. 
 
 " I describe these animals as having each a character of 
 his own. Such they were in fact, and their countenances 
 were so expressive of that character, that, when I looked 
 only on the face of either, I immediately knew which it 
 was. It is said that a shepherd, however numerous his 
 flock, soon becomes so familiar with their features, that he 
 can, by that indication only, distinguish each from all the 
 rest ; and yet, to a common observer, the difference is 
 hardly perceptible. I doubt not that the same discrimina- 
 tion in the cast of countenances would be discoverable in 
 hares, and am persuaded that among a thousand of them no 
 two could be found exactly similar ; a circumstance little 
 suspected by those who have not had opportunity to observe 
 it. These creatures have a singular sagacity in discovering 
 the minutest alteration that is made in the i^lace to which 
 they arc accustomed, and instantly apply their nose to the 
 examination of a new object. A small hole being burnt in 
 the carpet, it was mended with a patch, and that patch in 
 a moment underwent the strictest scrutiny. They seem, 
 too, to be very much directed by the smell in the choice of 
 their favourites : to some persons, though they saw them 
 daily, they could never be reconciled, and would even 
 scream when they attempted to touch them ; but a miller 
 coming in engaged their affections at once ; his powdered 
 coat had charms that were irresistible. It is no wonder 
 that my intimate acquaintance with these specimens of 
 the kind has taught me to hold the sportsman's amuse- 
 ment in abhorrence ; he little knows what amiable crea- 
 tures he persecutes, of what gratitude they are capable, how 
 cheerful they arc in their spirits, what enjoyment they
 
 GRADUAL RECOVERY. 89 
 
 have of life, and that, impressed as they seem with a pecu- 
 liar dread of man, it is only because man gives them pecu- 
 liar cause for it. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Bess, I have said, died young ; Tiney lived to be nine 
 years old, and died, at last, I have reason to think, of some 
 hurt in his loins by a fall ; Puss is still living, and has just 
 completed his tenth year, discovering no signs of decay, 
 nor even of age, except that he has grown more discreet 
 and less frolicsome than he was. I cannot conclude with- 
 out observing, that I have lately introduced a dog to his 
 acquaintance, — a spaniel that had never seen a hare, to a 
 hare that had never seen a spaniel. I did it with great 
 caution, but there was no real need of it. Puss discovered 
 no token of fear, nor Marquis the least symptom of hos- 
 tihty. There is therefore, it should seem, no natural an- 
 tipathy between dog and hare ; but the pursuit of the one 
 occasions the flight of the other, and the dog pursues 
 because he is trained to it ; they eat bread at the same 
 time out of the same hand, and are in all respects sociable 
 and friendly. 
 
 " I should not do complete justice to my subject, did 
 I not add, that they have no ill scent belonging to them ; 
 that they are indefatigably nice in keeping themselves 
 clean, for which purpose nature has furnished them with a 
 brush under each foot ; and that they are never infested 
 by any vermin." 
 
 Still, months and years passed away, and Cowper's silence, 
 as to his friends and correspondents, remained unbroken. His 
 friend Hill continued to supply his wants ; but, between 
 November 1772 and May 1776, we find no trace of a single 
 line written to his old schoolfellow by Cowper. At last the 
 pen is once more resumed, and we again meet with his 
 frequent acknowledgments of frequent kindnesses. We 
 give one or two of these brief notes : — 
 
 " Olney, Nov. Vl, 1776. 
 " Dear Friend, — One to whom fish is so welcome as it is 
 to me can have no great occasion to distinguish the sorts.
 
 90 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 In general, therefore, whatever fish are likely to think a 
 jaunt into the country agreeable, will be sure to find me 
 ready to receive them. 
 
 " Having suffered so much by nervous fevers myself, 
 I know how to congratulate Ashley upon his recovery. 
 Other distempers only batter the walls ; but they creep 
 silently into the citadel and put the garrison to the sword. 
 
 " You perceive I have not made a squeamish use of 
 your obliging offer. The remembrance of past years, and 
 of the sentiments formerly exchanged in our evening walks, 
 convinces me still that an unreserved acceptance of what 
 is graciously offered is the handsomest way of dealing with 
 one of your character. 
 
 " Believe me yours, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 « Olney, May 25, 1777. 
 " My dear Friend, — "We differ not much in our opinion 
 of Gray. When I wrote last, I was in the middle of the 
 book. His later Epistles, I think, are worth little, as such, 
 but might be turned to excellent account by a young student 
 of taste and judgment. As to West's Letters, I think I could 
 easily bring your opinion of them to square with mine. 
 They are elegant and sensible, but have nothing in them 
 that is characteristic, or that discriminates them from the 
 letters of any other yoimg man of taste and learning. As 
 to the book you mention, I am in doubt whether to read it 
 or not. I should like the philosophical part of it, but the 
 political, which, I suppose, is a detail of intrigues carried 
 on by the Company and their servants, a history of rising 
 and falling nabobs, I should have no appetite to at all. I 
 will not, therefore, give you the trouble of sending it at 
 present. 
 
 " Yours affectionately, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 ''Olney, Jan. 1, 1778. 
 " My dear Friend, — ^Your last packet was doubly wel- 
 come, and Mrs. Hill's kindness gives me peculiar pleasure, 
 not as coming from a stranger to me, for I do not accoxmt 
 her so, though I never saw her, but as coming from one so
 
 HIS POEMS. 91 
 
 nearly connected with yourself. I shall take care to ac- 
 knowledge the receipt of her obliging letter, when I return 
 the books. Assure yourself, in the mean time, that I read 
 as if the librarian was at my elbow, continually jogging it, 
 and growling out, 'Make haste.' But, as I read aloud, I 
 shall not have finished before the end of the week, and will 
 return them by the diligence next Monday. 
 
 " I shall be glad if you will let me know whether I am 
 to understand by the sorrow you express that any part of 
 my former supplies is actually cut off, or whether they are 
 only more tardy in coming in than usual. It is useful, 
 even to the rich, to know, as nearly as may be, the exact 
 amount of their income ; but how much more so to a man 
 of my small dimensions ! If the former should be the 
 case, I shall have less reason to be surprised than I have 
 to wonder at the continuance of them so long. Favours 
 are favours indeed, when laid out upon so barren a soil, 
 where the expense of sowing is never accompanied by the 
 smallest hope of return. What pain there is in gratitude, 
 I have often felt ; but the pleasure of requiting an obh- 
 gation has always been out of my reach. 
 
 " Afi'ectionately yours, 
 
 «W. C." 
 
 " Olney, April 11, 1778. 
 " My dear Friend, — Poor Sir Tliomas ! I knew that I 
 had a place in his affections, and, from his own information 
 many years ago, a place in his will ; but little thought 
 that after the lapse of so many years I should retain it. 
 His remembrance of me, after so long a season of separa- 
 tion, has done me much honour, and leaves me the more 
 reason to regret his decease. 
 
 " I am reading the AT)be with great satisfaction, and 
 think him the most intelligent writer upon so extensive 
 a subject I ever met with ; in every respect superior to 
 the Abbe in Scotland. 
 
 " Yours afi'ectionately, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 In 1779 Mr. Newton published the Olney Hymns, of 
 which collection Cowper's contributions amounted in num-
 
 92 LITE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 ber to sixty-eight. This may be said to have been his first 
 introduction to the public in the character of a poet. The 
 next year, 1780, Mr. Thornton presented Mr. Newton to 
 the rectory of St. Mary Woolnoth, in the city of London, 
 and Cow|ier lost the friend whose presence had been his 
 chief attraction to Olney, and with whom he had Uved in 
 the closest intercourse for more than twelve years. Writing 
 to Mrs. Newton shortly after this, he says : — 
 
 " The Adcarage-house became a melancholy object as 
 soon as Mr. Newton had left it ; when you left it, it became 
 more melancholy : now it is actually occupied by another 
 family, I cannot even look at it without being shocked. As 
 I walked in the garden this evening I saw the smoke issue 
 from the study-chimney, and said to myself, That used to 
 be a sign that Mr. Newton was there, but it is so no longer. 
 The walls of the house know nothing of the change that 
 has taken place ; the bolt of the chamber-door sounds just 
 
 as it used to do ; and when Mr. P goes up-stairs, for 
 
 aught I know, or ever shall know, the fall of his foot could 
 hardly, perhaps, be distinguished from that of Mr. Newton. 
 But Mr. Newton's foot will never be heard upon that stair- 
 case again. These reflections, and such as these, occurred 
 to me upon the occasion. ***** jf j were in a 
 condition to leave Olney too, I certainly would not stay in 
 it. It is no attachment to the place that binds me here, 
 but an unfitness for every other. I lived in it once, but 
 now I am buried in it, and have no business with the world 
 on the outside of my sepulchre ; my appearance woidd 
 startle them, and theirs would be shocking to me." 
 
 The death of Sir Thomas Hesketh a little before this, 
 — one of the friends who contributed to his small income, 
 — and some other circumstances, had renewed Cowper's 
 anxious fears as to his means of support. His friend Unwin, 
 the young man who had first sought his acquaintance at 
 Huntingdon, and who was now a clergyman, suggested his 
 reminding his old schoolfellow Thurlow, now Lord Chan- 
 cellor, of certain conversations in days jjast ; but Cowper 
 could not reconcile himself to the idea. He rephcs : — 
 
 "June 18, 1778. 
 
 " Dear Unwin, — I feel myself much obliged to you for
 
 HIS POEMS. 93 
 
 your kind intimation, and have given the subject of it all 
 my best attention, both before I received your letter and 
 since. The result is, that I am persuaded it will ])e better 
 not to write. I know the man and his disposition well ; 
 he is very liberal in his way of thinking, generous and dis- 
 cerning. He is well aware of the tricks that are played 
 upon such occasions ; and, after fifteen years' interruption 
 of all intercourse between us, would translate my letter 
 into this language — Pray remember the poor. This would 
 disgust him, because he would think our former intimacy 
 disgraced by such an oblique application. He has not 
 forgotten me ; and if he had, there are those about him 
 who cannot come into his presence without reminding him 
 of me ; and he is also perfectly acquainted with my cir- 
 cumstances. It would, perhaps, give him pleasure to sur- 
 prise me with a benefit ; and if he means me such a favour, 
 I should disappoint him by asking it. Thus he dealt with 
 my friend Mr. Hill, to whom, by the way, I introduced him, 
 and to all my family connexions in town. He sent for 
 him the week before last, and, without any solicitation, 
 freely gave him one of his secretaryships. I know not the 
 income ; but as Mr. Hill is in good circumstances, and the 
 gift was unasked, I dare say it is no trifle. 
 
 " I repeat my thanks for your suggestion ; you see a 
 part of my reasons for thus conducting myself ; if we were 
 together, I could give you more. 
 
 " Yours aflfectionately, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 He began now to amuse himself occasionally with the 
 pencil ; l)ut gardening was still his chief employment. To 
 Mr. Newton he writes : — 
 
 " Olney, July 30, 1780. 
 
 "My dear Sir, — You may think, perhaps, that I deal 
 more liberally with Mr. Unwin, in the way of poetical 
 export, than 1 do with you, and I believe you have reason : 
 the truth is this — if I walked the streets with a fiddle 
 under my arm, I should never think of performing before 
 the window of a privy councillor or a chief justice, but 
 should rather make free with ears more likely to be open
 
 94 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 to such amusement. The trifles I produce in this way are, 
 indeed, such trifles that I cannot think them seasonable 
 presents for you. Mr. Unwin himself would not be of- 
 fended if I was to tell him that there is this difference 
 between him and Mr. Newi;on, — that the latter is already 
 an apostle, while he himself is only undergoing the busi- 
 ness of incubation, with a hope that he may be 'hatched in 
 time. When my Muse comes forth arrayed in sables, at 
 least in a robe of graver cast, I make no scruple to direct 
 her to my friend at Hoxton. This has been one reason 
 why I have so long delayed the riddle. But, lest I should 
 seem to set a value upon it that I do not, by making it an 
 object of still further inquiry, here it comes : — 
 
 " I am just two and two, I am warm, I am cold, 
 And the parent of numbers that cannot be told. 
 I am lawful, unlawful, — a duty, a fault. 
 I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought. 
 An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course, 
 And yielded with pleasure — when taken by force. 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 But now, in this year, 1780, his history as a poet really 
 commences. Mrs. Unwin, perceiving the necessity of em- 
 ployment to keep his mind from feeding upon itself, 
 encouraged him to commence a poem of more importance 
 than a hymn or a ballad. The Progress of Error was soon 
 chosen as a subject, and the work was commenced. Cowper 
 seems to have feared that Mr. Newton would be alarmed 
 at the idea of such an undertaking, and he writes to him 
 thus : — 
 
 " ' Don't be alarmed,' he says to him ; ' I ride Pegasus 
 with a curb. He will never run away with me again. I 
 have even convinced Mrs. Unwin that I can manage him, 
 and make him stop when I please.' In the same letter he 
 says, 'If human nature may be compared to a piece of 
 tapestry (and why not ?), then human nature, as it subsists 
 in me, though it is sadly faded on the right side, retains all 
 its colour on the wrong. I am pleased with commendation, 
 and though not passionately desirous of indiscriminate 
 praise, or what is generally called popularity, yet when a
 
 HIS POEMS. 95 
 
 judicious friend claps me on the back, I own I find it an 
 encouragement. At this season of the year, and in this 
 gloomy, uncomfortable climate, it is no easy matter for the 
 owner of a mind like mine to divert it from sad subjects, 
 and fix it upon such as may administer to its amusement. 
 Poetry, above all things, is useful to me in this respect. 
 While I am held in pursuit of pretty images, or a pretty 
 way of expressing them, I forget everything that is irk- 
 some, and, like a boy that plays the truant, determine to 
 avail myself of the present opportunity to be amused, and 
 to put by the disagreeable recollection that I must, after 
 all, go home and be whipt again.' " 
 
 It is often found that when an old amusement or occu- 
 pation, long discontinued, is again resorted to, and enjoy- 
 ment found in it, the mind receives a sudden bent, and 
 becomes absorbed in the new-found delight. Cowper had 
 nearly forgotten that love of Uterature which, at "West- 
 minster and in the Temple, had been a chief object of his 
 existence. His illness had first banished the very thought 
 from his mind. His revival, and his renewal to a better 
 life, filled his thoughts with higher and nobler objects. 
 From 1773 to 1780, his pen had produced nothing but his 
 portion of the Olney Ilymm. But now, — the Tempter 
 having succeeded in fastening a delusion on his mind, that 
 between God and his soul all communion was forbidden, 
 — life became, at first, almost insupportable ; and, when 
 despair had somewhat abated, amusement and literary 
 occupation seemed absolutely necessary. Mrs. Unwin, 
 perceiving his state of suffering, said, " Write." He began, 
 and now it was difficult to stop. In December, the Progress 
 of Error was completed ; and, before the end of March, 
 Truth, Table Talk, and Expostulation, were all written. 
 
 Transmitting Table Talk to Mr. Newton, Cowper said 
 to him, " It is a medley of many things ; some that may be 
 useful, and some that, for aught I know, may be very 
 diverting. I am merry that I may decoy people into my 
 company, and grave that they may be the better for it. 
 Now and then I put on the garb of a philosopher, and take 
 the opportunity that disguise procures me, to drop a word 
 in favour of rehgion. In short, there is some froth, and
 
 96 LIFE OP WTT.T.TAM COWPER. 
 
 here and there a bit of sweetmeat, which seems to entitle 
 it justly to the name of a certain dish the ladies call a 
 trifle. I did not choose to be more facetious, lest I should 
 consult the taste of my readers at the expense of my own 
 approbation ; nor more serious than I have been, lest I 
 should forfeit theirs. A poet in my circumstances has a 
 difficult part to act ; one minute obliged to bridle his 
 humour, if he has any, and the next, to clap a spur to the 
 sides of it : now ready to weep from a sense of the im- 
 portance of his subject, and on a sudden constrained to 
 laugh, lest his gi-avity should be mistaken for dulness. If 
 this be not violent exercise for the mind, I know not what 
 is ; and if any man doubt it, let him try. Whether all this 
 management and contrivance be necessary, I do not know, 
 but am incliued to suspect that if my Muse was to go 
 forth clad in Quaker colour, without one bit of riband to 
 enhven her appearance, she might walk from one end of 
 London to the other, as little noticed as if she were one of 
 the sisterhood indeed." * 
 
 A volume of the ordinary size having been thus rapidly 
 constructed, Mr. Newton was allowed to seek a publisher. 
 Johnson, of St. Paul's Churchyard, in those days one of the 
 most eminent of the Loudon booksellers, and who had 
 printed one or two volumes for Mr. Newton, was selected. 
 He undertook the risk of the publication, but desired that 
 the author's name should be affixed to the work. Cowper 
 replies : — 
 
 " Since writing is become one of my principal amuse- 
 ments, and I have already produced so many verses on 
 subjects that entitle them to a hojse that they may pos- 
 sibly be useful, I should be sorry to suppress them entirely, 
 or to publish them to no purpose, for want of that chief 
 ingredient, the name of the author. If my name, therefore, 
 wiU serve them in any degree, as a passport into pubhc 
 notice, they are welcome to it ; and Mr. Johnson will, if he 
 pleases, announce me to the world by the style and title of 
 
 William Cowper, Esq. 
 Of the Inner Temple."! 
 
 * Feb. IS, 17S1. t March 5, 1781.
 
 HIS POEMS. 97 
 
 Cowper now began to experience the pleasing flutterings 
 of an author's expectation. He writes, — 
 
 " I am in the middle of an affair called ' Conversation,' 
 which, as Table Talk serves in the present volume by way 
 of introductoiy fiddle to the band that follows, I design 
 shall perfoim the same office in a second." — " It is not a 
 dialogue, as the title would lead you to surmise, nor does 
 it bear the least resemblance to Table Talk, except that it ' 
 is serio-comic hke all the rest. My design in it is to 
 convince the world that they make"but an indifferent use 
 of their tongues, considering the intention of Providence 
 when he endued them with the faculty of speech ; to point 
 out the abuses, which is the jocular part of the business ; 
 and to prescribe the remedy, which is the grave and sober." 
 Upon Johnson's expressing a wish to him that his pen 
 might still be employed, he offered hini this then unfinished 
 poem, which he estimated at eight hundred lines, if he 
 chose to swell the volume ; he was told, in reply, not to be 
 afraid of making the volume too large, which Cowper 
 interpreted to mean, that if had still another piece there 
 would be room for it. Another was upon the stocks. " I 
 have already," said he, " begun, and proceeded a little way, 
 in a poem called Retirement. My view in choosing that 
 subject is to direct to the proper use of the opportunities 
 it affords for the cultivation of a man's best interests ; to 
 censure the vices and the follies which people carry with 
 them into their retreats, where they make no other use of 
 their leisure than to gratify themselves with the indulgence 
 of their favourite appetites, and to pay themselves by a 
 life of pleasure for a life of business. In conclusion, I 
 would enlarge upoi\ the happiness of that state, when dis- 
 creetly enjoyed, and religiously improved. But all this is 
 at present in embryo. I generally despair of my progress 
 when I begin ; but if, like my travelling 'Squire, I should 
 kindle as I go, this likewise may make a part of the volume, 
 for I have time enoiigh before me." * 
 
 This summer produced an event which exerted, for a 
 considerable period, a powerful influence on Cowper's mind. 
 
 * Aug. 25, 17S1.
 
 98 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 In such a place as Olney, a dull sameness and monotony of 
 occurrence prevailed, especially to such as, like the poet, 
 shrank from society, and felt incapable of useful exertion. 
 But one day, at the commencement of July, two ladies 
 entered a shop near to IVlrs. Un win's house ; one of whom 
 was Mrs. Jones, the wife of a clergyman, who resided at 
 Clifton, near Olney ; the other, her sister, the widow of a 
 baronet, of the name of Austen. From her portrait we can 
 see at a glance that she must have interested any person of 
 taste and sensibihty. Cowper's usual shyness was overcome, 
 and he begged IVIrs. Unwin to invite these ladies to tea. Yet, 
 when this had been done, and the invitation accepted, his 
 natural timidity returned to such an extent as to make it 
 difficult for him to join the party. Nevertheless, " having 
 forced himself," says Hayley, "to engage in conversation 
 with Lady Austen, he was so reanimated by her colloquial 
 talents that he attended the ladies on their return to 
 Clifton, and from that time continued to cultivate the 
 regard of his new acquaintance with such assiduous atten- 
 tion, that she soon received from him the familiar and 
 endearing title of Sister Ann." 
 
 This was shortly after Mr. Newton's first visit to Olney, 
 since his removal from that cure, a visit which Cowi^er had 
 greatly enjoyed during its continuance, but which, hke all 
 such visits, left an aching in his heart. " My sensations at 
 your departure," he says to him, " were far from pleasant, 
 and Mrs. Unwin suffered more upon the occasion than 
 when you first took leave of Olney. When we shall meet 
 again, and in what circumstances, or whether wc shall meei 
 or not, is an event to be found nowhere but in tb.at volume 
 of Providence which belongs to the current year, and wiU 
 not be understood till it is accomplished. This, I know, 
 that your visit was most agreeable here. It was so even to 
 me, who, though I live in the midst of many agreeables, 
 am but little sensible of their charms. But when you 
 came, I determined, as much as possible, to be deaf to the 
 suggestions of despair ; that if I could contribute but little 
 to the pleasure of the opportunity, I might not dash it 
 with unseasonable melancholy, and, like an instrument with 
 a broken string, interrupt the harmony of the concert."
 
 HIS POEMS. 99 
 
 In the same letter which began in this melancholy 
 strain, Cowper mentioned Lady Austen's fiist visit, and 
 that they had returned it ; and he thus described her to his 
 friend : " She is a lively agreeable woman ; has seen much 
 of the world, and accounts it a great simpleton, as it is. 
 She laughs and makes laugh ; and keeps up a conversation 
 without seeming to labour at it." To Mr. Unwin he says, 
 " She is a most agi-eeable woman, and has fallen in love 
 with your mother and me ; insomuch, that I do not know 
 but she may settle at Olney. Yesterday se'nniglit we all 
 dined together in the Spinnie — a most delightful retire- 
 ment, belonging to Mrs. Throckmorton of Weston. Lady 
 Austen's lackey, and a lad that waits on me in the garden, 
 drove a wheelbarrow full of eatables and drinkables to the 
 scene of our fete champitre. A board, laid over the top of 
 the wheelbarrow, served us for a table ; our dining-room 
 was a root-house, lined with moss and ivy. At six o'clock, 
 the servants, who had dined under the great elm upon 
 the ground, at a little distance, boiled the kettle, and the 
 said wheelbarrow served us for a tea-table. We then took 
 a walk into the wilderness, about half a mile off, and were 
 at home again a little after eight, having spent the day 
 together, from noon till evening, without one cross occur- 
 rence, or the least weariness of each other. A hapjjiness 
 few parties of pleasure can boast of" 
 
 In October, Lady Austen returned to town. Cowi^er 
 told hei- to expect a visit there from ]\[r. Unwin ; " an en- 
 terprise," said he to his friend, " which you may engage in 
 with the more alacrity, because as she loves anything that 
 has any connexion with your mother, she is sure to feel a 
 sufficient partiality for her son. She has many features in 
 her character which you will admire ; but one in particular, 
 on account of the rarity of it, will engage your attention 
 and esteem. She has a degree of gratitude in her com- 
 position, so quick a sense of obligation, as is hardly to be 
 found in any rank of life ; and, if report says true, is scarce 
 indeed in the superior. Discover but a wish to please her, 
 and she never forgets it ; not only thanks you, but the 
 tears will start into her eyes at the recollection of the 
 smallest service. With these fine feelings she has the
 
 100 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 most, and the most harmless, vivacity you can imagine. 
 In short, she is what you will find her to be upon half an 
 hour's conversation with her." 
 
 But Cowper's sensibility and delight in what is at- 
 tractive in a female character, had led him to overlook 
 the want of solid Christian principle. This friendship was 
 human, and it had but a short duration. In February 
 1782 the poet wrote to his friend Unwin, as follows : — 
 
 "I have a piece of secret histoiy to communicate, 
 which I would have imparted sooner, but that I thought 
 it possible there might be no occasion to mention it at 
 all. When persons for whom I have felt a friendship 
 disappoint and mortify me by their conduct, or act un- 
 justly towards me, though I no longer esteem them 
 friends, I still feel that tenderness for their character, 
 that I would conceal the blemish if I could. But in 
 making known the following anecdote to you, I run no 
 risk of a publication, assured that when I have once en- 
 joined you to secrecy, you will observe it. My letters have 
 already apprised you of that close and intimate connexion 
 that took place between the lady you visited in Queen 
 Anne Street and us. Nothing could be more promising, 
 though sudden in the commencement. She treated us 
 with as much unreservedness of communication, as if we 
 had been born in the same house, and educated together. 
 At her departure she herself proposed a correspondence, 
 and, because WTiting does not agree with your mother, 
 proposed a correspondence with me. This soit of inter- 
 course had not been long maintained, before I discovered, 
 by some slight intimation of it, that she had conceiYed 
 displeasure at something I had written, though I cannot 
 now recollect it. Conscious of none but the most upright 
 and inoffensive intentions, I yet apologised for the passage 
 in question, and the flaw was healed again. Our cor- 
 respondence, after this, proceeded smoothly for a con- 
 siderable time ; but, at length, having had repeated occa- 
 sion to observe that she expressed a sort of romantic idea 
 of our merits, and built sucli expectations of felicity upon 
 our friendship, as we were surd that nothing human could 
 jiossibly answer, I wrote to remind her that we were
 
 HIS POEMS. 101 
 
 mortal, to recommend it to her not to think more highly 
 of us than the subject would warrant ; and intimating, that 
 when we embellish a creature with colours taken from our 
 own fancy, and, so adorned, admire and praise it beyond its 
 real merits, wc make it an idol, and have nothing to expect 
 in the end but that it will deceive our hopes, and that we 
 shall derive nothing from it but a painful conviction of our 
 error. Your mother heard me read the letter ; she read it 
 herself, and honoured it with her warm a2J})robation. But 
 it gave mortal offence. It received, indeed, an answer, but 
 such a one as I could by no means reply to : and thus 
 ended (for it is impossible it should ever be renewed) a 
 friendship that bade fair to be lasting, — being formed with 
 a woman whose seeming stability of temper, whose know^- 
 ledge of the world, and great expei'ience of its folly, but 
 above all, whose sense of religion and seriousness of mind 
 (for with aU that gaiety she is a great thinker), induced us 
 both, in spite of that cautious reserve that marks our cha- 
 racter, to trust her, to love and value her, and to open our 
 hearts for her reception. It may be necessary to add that, 
 by her own desire, I wrote to her under the assumed rela- 
 tion of a brother, and she to me as a sister — ceu fumus in 
 auras .... We have recovered from the concein we suf- 
 fered on account of the fracas abovementioned, tkough for 
 some days it made us imhappy. Not knowing but that 
 she might possibly become sensible in a few daj'S that she 
 had acted hastily and unreasonaJbly, and I'enew the cor- 
 respondence herself, I could not in justice apprise you of 
 this quarrel sooner ; but some weeks having passed with- 
 out any proposals of accommodation, I am now persuaded 
 that none are intended, and in justice to you, am obliged 
 to caution you against a repetition of your visit." 
 
 Cow|>cr, however, soon had to communicate that the 
 advances of which he despaired had been made. " Having," 
 he says, " imparted to you an account oit\\Qfraccts between 
 us and Lady Austen, it is necessary that you shoidd be 
 made acquainted with every event that bears any relation 
 to that incident. The day before yesterday she sent us by 
 her brother-in-law, ]Mr. Jones, three pair of worked ruffles, 
 with advice that I should soon receive a fourth. I knew
 
 102 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER, 
 
 they were begun before we quarrelled. I begged Mr. Jones 
 to tell her, when he wrote next, how much I thought my- 
 self obliged ; and gave him to understand that I should 
 make her a very inadequate, though the only return in my 
 power, by laying my volume at her feet : this, likewise, she 
 had previous reason given her to expect. Thus stands the 
 affair at present. Whether anything in the shape of a 
 reconciliation is to take place hereafter, I know not ; but 
 this I know, that when an amicable freedom of intercourse, 
 and that vinreserved confidence which belongs only to true 
 friendsliip, has been once unrooted, plant it again with what 
 care you may, it is very difficult, if not impossible, to make 
 it grow." 
 
 Shortly after, however, we hear, — 
 " We are reconciled. She (Lady Austen) seized the 
 first opportunity to embrace your mother with tears of the 
 tendei'est affection. We were all a httle awkward at first, 
 but now are as easy as ever." 
 
 It is to Lady Austen that we owe the ballad of " John 
 Gilpin" — a versification of a story which she narrated to 
 Cowper one evening — and which, having deprived him of 
 sleep nearly the whole of that night, he presented to her 
 in the morning in its present form. This ballad, read by a 
 comic actor of the name of Henderson at Freemasons' Hall, 
 became one of the marvels of the day, and greatly assisted 
 the rapid sale of the author s more solid productions. 
 
 About this same period, too, at the request of Mr. Bull, 
 Cowper employed himself in translating the poems of 
 Madame Guion. Mr. B. had succeeded Mr. Newton in the 
 difiicult office of nearest male friend and counsellor. Cowper's 
 frequent appeUation for him was Carissime Taurorum : — 
 He was, indeed, a man after his own heart. " You are not 
 acquainted with him," he says to Mr. Unwin ; " perhaps 
 it i;: as well for you that you are not. You would regret, 
 stiU more than you do, that there are so many miles inter- 
 posed between us. He spends part of the day with us 
 to-morrow. A Dissenter, but a liberal one ; a man of letters 
 and of genius ; a master of a fine imagination, or rather 
 not master of it, — an imagination which, when he finds 
 himself in the company he loves, and can confide in, runs
 
 HK P0E3IS. 103 
 
 away witli him into such fields of speculation, as amuse 
 and enliven every other imagination that has the happi- 
 ness to be of the party ; at other times he has a tender and 
 delicate sort of melancholy in his disposition, not less 
 agreeable in its way. No men are better qualified for com- 
 panions, in such a world as this, than men of such a tem- 
 perament. Every scene of life has two sides, a dark and 
 a bright one, and the mind that has an equal mixture of 
 melancholy and vivacity is best of all qualified for the con- 
 templation of either. He can be lively without levity, 
 and pensive without dejection. Such a man is Mr. Bull. 
 But — he smokes tobacco — nothing is perfect ! 
 
 Nihil est ah omni 
 
 Parte bcatum." 
 
 Some time before the period at which we are now 
 arrived, Mr. Bull put into Cowper's hands Madame Guion's 
 poetical woi-ks, and requested him to translate a few of 
 them ; " partly," he says, " to amuse a solitary hour, partly 
 to keep in exercise the genius of this incomparable nian." 
 A month's leisure was devoted to them, and they were 
 presented to Mr. Bull to make what use of them he 
 pleased. This friend some time afterwards suggested that 
 they should be printed ; Co\^^Der undertook to revise them 
 for this purpose, but various circumstances prevented him 
 from ever carrying the intention into eff'ect. Mr. Bull 
 probably thought that the sti'ain of her poetry would 
 rather soothe his mintl than agitate it, and induce a sane 
 state of religious feeling. But, perhaps, the passages on 
 which Cowper brooded most wei-e those that he could apply, 
 when taken apart from the context, to his own imaginary 
 condition ; — such as the following : — 
 
 " My claim to fife, though sought ■s\ith earnest care, 
 No light within me, or -vvithout me, shows ; 
 Once I hail faith; hut now in self-despair 
 Find my chief cordial, and my best repose. 
 
 My soul is a forgotten thing ; she sinks, 
 Sinks and is lost, without a wish to rise ; 
 
 Feels an indiffei-ence she abhors, and thinks 
 Her name erased for ever from the akies."
 
 104 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Cowper, however, explained to Mr. Newton how it was 
 that he could treat upon subjects in vei'se which he trem- 
 bled to approach in. prose. " There is a difference," said he. 
 " The search after poetical expi'ession, the rhyme, and the 
 numbers, are all affairs of some difhculty ; they amuse, 
 indeed, but are not to be attained without study, and en- 
 gross, perhaps, a larger share of the attention than the 
 subject itself. Persons fond of music will sometimes find 
 pleasure in the tune, when the words afford them none." 
 
 But now the birth of his volume was at hand. At this 
 period he writes to Mr. Newton as follows : — 
 
 " Nov. 7, 1781. 
 
 " My dear Friend, — So far as Johnson is to be depended 
 on, and I begin to hope that he is now in earnest, I think 
 myself warranted to furnish you with an answer to the 
 question which you say so often meets you. Mr. Uuwin 
 made the same inquiry at his shop in his way to Stock 
 from Brighthelmstone ; when he assured him that the book 
 would be printed off in a month, and ready for publication 
 after the holidays. For some time past the business has 
 IDroceeded glibly, and if he perseveres at the same rate, it is 
 probable his answer will prove a true one. 
 
 " Having discontinued the practice of verse-making for 
 some weeks, I now feel quite incapable of resuming it ; and 
 can only wonder at it, as one of the most extraordinary 
 incidents in m.j life, that I should have composed a volume. 
 Had it been suggested to me as a practicable thing, in 
 better days, though I should have been glad to have found 
 it so, many hindrances would have conspired to withhold 
 me from such an enterprise. I should not have dared, at 
 that time of day, to have committed my name to the 
 public, and my reputation to the hazard of their opinion. 
 But it is otherwise with me now. I am more indifferent 
 about what may touch me in that point than ever I was in 
 my life. The stake that would then have seemed im- 
 portant now seems trivial ; and it is of little consequence 
 to me, who no longer feel myself possessed of what I ac- 
 counted infinitely more valuable, whether the world's 
 verdict shall pronounce me a poet, or an empty pretender
 
 HIS POEMS. 105 
 
 to the title. This liappy coldness towards a matter so 
 generally interesting to all rhymers, left me quite at lil)crty 
 for the undertaking, unfettered by fear, and under no 
 restraints of that diffidence, which is my natural temper, 
 and which would either have made it impossible for me to 
 commence an author by name, or would have insured my 
 miscarriage if I had." 
 
 "A French author," he observes to I\[r. Unwin, says, 
 "There is something very bewitching in authorship, and he 
 that has written will write again. If the critics do not set 
 their foot upon this first egg that I have laid, and crush it, 
 I shall probalily verify his observation ; and when I feel 
 my spirits rise, and that I am armed with industry suf- 
 ficient for the purpose, undertake the production of an- 
 other volume." Three mouths afterwards he repeated this 
 saying to Mr. Newton, and commented upon it thus : " It 
 may be so. I can subscribe to the former part of his 
 assertion from my own experience, having never found an 
 amusement, among the many I have been obliged to have 
 recourse to, that so well answered the i^urpose for which I 
 used it. The quieting and composing effect of it was such, 
 and so totally absorbed have I sometimes been in my 
 rhyming occupation, that neither the past nor the future, 
 — (those themes which to me are so fruitful in regret at 
 other times) — had any longer a share in my contemplation. 
 For this reason I wish, and have often wished since the fit 
 left me, that it would seize me again ; but hitherto I have 
 wished it in vain. I see no want of subjects, but I feel a 
 total disability to discuss them. "Whether it is thus with 
 other writers, or not, I am ignorant, but I should suppose 
 my case in this respect a little peculiar. The voluminous 
 writers, at least, whose ^'ein of fancj^ seems always to have 
 been rich in proportion to their occasions, cannot have 
 been so urdike, and so unequal to themselves. There is 
 this difference between my poetship and the generality of 
 them, they have been ignorant how much they have stood 
 indebted to an Almighty power for the exercise of those 
 talents they have supposed their own ; whereas I know, 
 and know most perfectly, and am, perhaps, to be taught it 
 to the lastj that my power to think, whatever it be, and
 
 106 UFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 consequently my power to compose, is, as much as my 
 outward form, afforded to me by the same hand that makes 
 me in any respect to differ from a brute. This lesson, if 
 not constantly inculcated, might perhaps be forgotten, or, 
 at least, too slightly remembered." 
 
 The volume, when, at last, it made its aj^pearance, 
 pleased those persons whom its author was most desirous 
 of pleasing ; Mrs. Unwin, who saw the poems in their pro- 
 gress ; I\Ir. Newton, by whom they were criticised on their 
 way to the press ; and IMr. Unwin, with whom he corre- 
 sponded as with a friend and brother. Nothing, he said, 
 had given him so much pleasure as his favourable opinion. 
 " The circumstance, however, in your letter, which pleased 
 me most, was, that you wrote in high spirits, and though 
 you said much, suppressed more, lest you should hurt my 
 delicacy. My delicacy is obhged to you ; but you observe 
 it is not so squeamish but that after it has feasted i:pon 
 l^raise expressed, it can find a comfortable dessert iia the 
 contemplation of praise implied. I now feel as if I should 
 be glad to begin another volume ; but from the will to the 
 power is a step too wide for me to take at present ; and the 
 season of the year brings with it so many avocations into 
 the garden, where I am my ovm factotum, that I have little 
 or no leisure for the quill."* 
 
 To the same friend he wi'ites, — 
 
 " Before I had published, I said to myself — You and I, 
 Mr. Cowper, will not concern ourselves much about what 
 the critics may say of our book ! But having once sent 
 my wits for a venture, I soon became anxious about the 
 issue, and foimd that I could not be satisfied with a warm 
 l^lace in my own good graces, unless my friends were 
 pleased Avith me as much as I pleased myself. Meeting 
 with their approbation, I began to feel the workings of 
 ambition. It is well, said I, that my friends are pleased ; 
 but friends are sometimes partial, and mine, I have reason 
 to think, are not altogether free from bias. Methinks I 
 should like to hear a stranger or two speak well of me. I 
 was presently gratified by the approbation of the London 
 
 • March 18, 1782.
 
 HIS POEMS. 107 
 
 Magazine, and the Gcntlemai^s, particularly by that of the 
 former, and by the plaudit of Dr. Franklin. By the way, 
 magazines are publications we have but little respect for, 
 till we ourselves are chronicled in them, and then they 
 assume an importance in our esteem which before we could 
 not allow them. But the Monthhj Review, the most for- 
 midable of all my judges, is still behind. What will that 
 critical Rhadamanthus say, when my shivering genius shall 
 appear before him ] Still he keeps me in hot water, and I 
 must wait another month for his award. Alas ! when I 
 wish for a favourable sentence from that quarter (to coii- 
 fess a weakness that I should not confess to all), I feel luy- 
 self not a little influenced by a tender regard to my repu- 
 tation here, even among my neighbours at Oluey. Here 
 are watchmakers, who themselves are wits, and who at 
 present, perhaps, think me one. Here is a carpenter, and a 
 baker, and not to mention others, here is your idol, Mr. 
 Teedon, whose smile is fame. All these read the Monthly 
 Review, and all these will set me down for a dunce, if those 
 terrible critics should show them the example. But, oh ! 
 wherever else I am accounted dull, dear Mr. Griffiths, let 
 me pass for a genius at Olney ! " * 
 
 The volume had made its appearance in the beginning 
 of 1782. Its reception was not very flattering. The author 
 transmitted copies to some of his old friends ; among 
 others, to Thurlow and to Colman. His feelings were evi- 
 dently ii-ritated, when months elapsed, and he received no 
 reply from either. As for the critics, their verdict was a 
 divided one. But the poet had now tried his pinions, and 
 a second flight was soon taken. In the following spring 
 Lady Austen pressed him to try his powers in blank vei-se. 
 He pleaded the want of a subject. " Oh ! " she exclaimed, 
 " you can never be in want of a subject ; you can write 
 upon any — write upon this Sofa." The lively suggestion 
 was taken, and Cowper began, in 1783, The I'usic, — " the 
 work which made him the most popular poet of his age, 
 and raised him to a rank in English poetiy," says 
 Southey, " from which no revolution of taste can de- 
 trude him." 
 
 * June 12, 1782.
 
 108 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 This frieudship, however, which had given rise to, did 
 not endure long enough to witness the completion of. The 
 Task. In the next year, 1784, the intimacy with Lady 
 Austen ceased. Co\\'i)er writes to Mr. Unwin as follows : — 
 
 " You are going to Bristol. A lady, not long since our 
 very near neighbour, is probably there ; she was there very 
 lately. If you should chance to fall into lier company, 
 remember, if you please, that we found the connexion, on 
 some accounts, an inconvenient one ; that we do not wish 
 to renew it ; and conduct yourself accordingly. A cha- 
 racter with which we spend aU our time should be made on 
 purpose for us : too much or too httle of any single in- 
 gredient spoils all. In the instance in question, the dis- 
 simihtude was too great not to be felt continually, and 
 consequently made our intercourse unpleasant. AVe have 
 reason, however, to believe that she has given up all 
 thoughts of a return to Olney." 
 
 Many conjectures have been hazarded as to the cause 
 of the cessation of this seemingly warm and cordial friend- 
 ship, and secret reasons have been surmised. We appre- 
 hend that there was nothing more in the case than that 
 which meets the eye. Mrs. Unwin had for twenty years 
 devoted herself to the care of Cowper ; had watched over 
 him w4th a maternal solicitude, and hoped for no return 
 but that of being first among his earthly friends. The 
 near proximity and close intimacy of a younger and more 
 fascinating woman, although pleasing for the time, must 
 have produced luomeuts when the aged and tried friend 
 perceived herself eclipsed by the new-comer. Uneasy feel- 
 ings, leading to sadness, would thus be generated in the 
 mind of that admirable person, to w^hom Cowper owed more 
 than to any other human being. He could not be blind to 
 this, nor could he hesitate as to the path of duty. He wrote 
 a farewell letter to Lady Austen, explaining and lamenting 
 the circumstances which led to the resolution he had 
 formed. This letter Lady A., in a moment of vexation, 
 destroyed ; but any man of delicate feelings can trace for 
 himself its outlines. 
 
 Nor should we overlook the further grounds which Cow- 
 per himself describes for this discontinuance of the acquaint-
 
 HIS POEMS. 109 
 
 ancc. Although L.ady Austen was an agreeable woman, 
 and a passionate admirer of the poet, yet her whole cha- 
 racter and tone of mind differed in many points of first-rate 
 importance from those of Cowper and his dearest friends. 
 There can be no doubt that his heart and conscience told 
 him, that in the brilliant and f;iscinating conversation of 
 this lady of fashion there was much that was unsafe, if not 
 positively wrong. 
 
 Other motives have been surmised, for which no basis 
 of facts can be adduced. It has been said that Lady 
 Austen desired a still nearer connexion than that of friend- 
 ship. It has also been said that an engagement actually 
 subsisted between Cowper and Mrs. Unwin, though his 
 mental illnesses prevented its fulfilment. But no proof can 
 be adduced in support of either of these surmises. That 
 such an engagement as that with ^Mrs. Unwin should have 
 existed for more than twenty years, and that no kind of 
 allusion should ever have been made to it in any of the 
 hundreds of letters written to Mr. Newton and to IMrs. 
 Unwin's son, is in the highest degree improbable. jSTor 
 could such a position of affairs have escaped the scruti- 
 nizing eye of Lady Hesketh, who thus describes ]\[rs. 
 Unwin in one of her letters to her sister Theodora : — 
 
 " She is very far from grave ; on the contrary, she is 
 cheerful and gay, and laughs de bon cceur upon the smallest 
 provocation. Amidst all the little puritanical words which 
 fall from her de terns en terns, she seems to have by nature 
 a great fund of gaiety : — great indeed must it have been, 
 not to have been totally overcome by the close confinement 
 in which she has hved, and the anxiety she must have 
 undergone for one whom she certainly loves as well as one 
 human being can love another. I will not say she idolizes 
 him, because that she would think wrong ; but she cer- 
 tainly seems to possess the truest regard and afiection for 
 this excellent creature, and, as I before said, has, in the 
 most hteral sense of those words, no will, or shadow of 
 inclination, but what is his. My account of Mrs. Unwin 
 may seem, perhaps, to you, on comparing my letters, con- 
 tradictory ; but when you consider that I began to wi*ite 
 at the moment, and at the first moment that I saw her,
 
 110 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 you will not wonder. Her character developes itself by 
 degrees ; and though I might lead you to suppose her 
 grave and melancholy, she is not so by any means. When 
 she speaks upon grave subjects, she does express herself 
 with a puritanical tone, and in puritanical expressions, but 
 on all other subjects she seems to have a great disposition 
 to cheerfulness and mirth ; and, indeed, had she not, she 
 could not have gone through all she has. I must say, too, 
 that she seems to be very well read in the Enghsh poets, 
 as appears by several httle quotations which she makes 
 from time to time, and has a true taste for what is excel- 
 lent in that way. There is something truly affectionate 
 and sincere in her manner. No one can express more 
 heartily than she does her joy to have me at Olney ; and as 
 this must be for his sake, it is an additional proof of her 
 regard and esteem for him." 
 
 Such was the state of things at Olney in 1784-85. 
 Still, though Lady Austen departed, The Task which she 
 had imposed uiaon the poet was performed. The work 
 proceeded without delay, while its originator had passed to 
 other chmes. In October 1784 it was offered to Johnson, 
 and accepted. In the spring of 1785 it came forth, to 
 exercise, probably, as powerful an influence on the English 
 mind as any volume that ever appeared in that language. 
 The Task became a general favourite, even before the re- 
 views could pronounce a f;ivourable verdict ; and the 
 former volume, hitherto of moderate sale, was floated down 
 the rapid current caused by the popularity of its suc- 
 cessor. New echtions of both volumes were quickly called 
 for, and from that day to the present, the printing-presses 
 of Great Britain have seldom rested from the labour of 
 producing innumerable copies of " CcnTER's Poems."
 
 RENEWED rSITERCOURSE WITH HIS F^VJIILY. Ill 
 
 VI. 
 
 EENEWED INTERCOURSE WITH HIS FAMILY. 
 A.D. 1785—1786. 
 
 One very natural consequence of Cowper's altered position, 
 and of his favourable reception by the public, was the re- 
 opening of an intercourse with his own family. We have 
 seen that Lady Heskcth, his old ijlaymate in Southampton 
 Row, had discontinued her correspondence in 1767 ; partly 
 from absence from England, but partly, no doubt, from a 
 want of sympathy with the religious tone of the poet's 
 letters. His other relatives — Mr. Ashley Cowper, General 
 Cowper, and a few more, — continued to afford him, through 
 Mr. Hill, a small annual income ; but, doubtless, believed that 
 "much religion had made him mad." And the apparent 
 alienation was mutual. Cowper, wi'iting to Mr. Un-svin at 
 this period, says, — " I have had more comfort, far more 
 comfort, in the connexions that I have formed within the 
 last twenty years, than in the more numerous ones that I 
 had before. Memorandiim. — The latter are almost all 
 Unwins, or Unwinisms." And thus, as his relatives did 
 not maintain any intercourse with him, so neither did he 
 seek any with them. 
 
 Yet no one's heart was ever more formed for friendship. 
 It was necessary to his very existence. With what pleasure, 
 then, must he have received, after a silence of eighteen 
 years, a letter from his cousin Harriet — now a widow — 
 Lady Hesketh. No doubt his volumes, which were be- 
 coming the town-talk, showed her, by their varied character 
 and depth of feeling, that ho was fully worthy of an effort 
 directed to the restoration of their former friendship. His 
 reply eagerly reciprocated her feelings. He writes : —
 
 112 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 " Olney, Oct. 12, 1785. 
 "My dear Cousin, — It is no new tiling with you to give 
 pleasure ; but I will venture to say, that you do not often 
 give more than you gave me this morning. When I came 
 down to breakfast, and found upon the table a letter 
 franked by my uncle, and, when, on opening that fi-ank, I 
 found that it contained a letter from you, I said within 
 myself, ' This is just as it should be. We are all grown 
 voung again, and the days that I thought I should see 
 no more are actually returned.' You perceive, there- 
 fore, that you judged well when you conjectured that a 
 line from you would not be disagreeable to me. It could 
 not be otherwise than, as in fact it proved, a most agree- 
 able surprise ; for I can truly boast of an affection for you 
 that neither years, nor interrupted intercourse, have at aU 
 abated. I need only recollect how much I valued you 
 once, and with how much cause, immediately to feel a 
 revival of the same value ; if that can be said to revive 
 which, at the most, has only been dormant for want of 
 employment, biit I slander it when I say that it has slept. 
 A thousand times have I recollected a thousand scenes, in 
 which our two selves have formed the whole of the drama, 
 with the greatest pleasure ; at times, too, when I had no 
 reason to suppose that I .should ever hear from you again. 
 I have laughed with you at the xirahian Nights^ Entertain- 
 ment, which afforded u.s, as you well know, a fund of merri- 
 ment that deserves never to be forgot. I have walked 
 with you to Netley Abbey, and have scrambled with yon 
 over hedges in every direction ; and many other feats we 
 have performed together, upon the field of my remem- 
 brance, and all within these few years. Should I say within 
 this twelvemonth, I should not transgress the truth. The 
 hours that I have spent with you were among the plea- 
 santest of my former days, and are, therefore, chronicled in 
 my mind so deeply as to feel no erasure. Neither do I 
 forget my poor friend Sir Thomas. I should remember 
 him, indeed, at any rate, on account of his personal kind- 
 ness to myself ; but the last testimony that he gave of his 
 regard for you endears him to me still more. With his 
 uncommon understanding (for with many peculiarities he
 
 REXEWED rXTERCOURSE WITH HIS FAiin.Y. 113 
 
 had more sense than any of his acquaintance), and with 
 his generous sensibihties, it was hardly possible that he 
 should not distinguish you as he has done. As it was the 
 last, so it was the best proof that he could give of a judg- 
 ment that never deceived him, when he would allow him- 
 self leisure to consult it. 
 
 " You say that you have often heard of me ; that 
 puzzles me. I cannot imagine from what quarter, but it is 
 uo matter. I must tell you, however, my cousin, that your 
 information has been a little defective. That I am happy 
 in my situation, is true ; I live, and have lived these twenty 
 years, with Mrs. Unwin, to whose affectionate care of me, 
 during the far gi-eater part of that time, it is, under Provi- 
 dence, o%\ang that I live at all. But I do not account 
 myself happy in having been for thirteen of those years 
 in a state of mind that has made all that care and atten- 
 tion necessary ; an attention and a care that have injured 
 her health, and which, had she not been uncommonly sup- 
 ported, must have brought her to the grave. But I will 
 pass to another subject ; it would be cruel to particularise 
 only to give pain, neither would I, by any means, give a 
 sable hue to the first letter of a correspondence so unex- 
 pectedly renewed. 
 
 " I am delighted with what you tell me of my uncle's 
 good health. To enjoy any measure of cheerfulness at so 
 late a day is much ; but to have that late day enlivened 
 with the vivacity of youth is much more, and, in these 
 postdiluvian times, a rarity indeed. Happy, for the most 
 part, are parents who have daughters. Daughters are not 
 apt to outlive their natural affections, which a son has 
 generally suiwived, even before his boyish years are ex- 
 pired. I rejoice particularly in my uncle's felicity, who 
 has three female descendants from his little person, who 
 leave him nothing to wish for upon that head. 
 
 "My dear cousin, dejection of spirits, which, I suppose, 
 may have prevented many a man from becoming an author, 
 made me one. I find constant employment necessary, and, 
 therefore, take care to be constantly employed. Manual 
 occupations do not engage the mind sufiiciently, as I know 
 by experience, having tried many. But composition, espe- 
 
 I
 
 114 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 cially of verse, absorbs it wholly. I write, therefore, gene- 
 rally, three hours in a morning, and in an evening I 
 transcribe. I read, also, but less than I write ; for I must 
 have bodily exercise, and, therefore, never pass a day 
 without it. 
 
 " You ask me where I have been this summer. I 
 answer, at Olney. Should you ask me where I spent the 
 last seventeen summers, I should still answer, at Olney. 
 Aye, and the winters also ; I have seldom left it, and, 
 except when I attended my brother in his last illness, 
 never, I believe, for a fortnight together. 
 
 " Adieu, my beloved cousin ; I shall not always be thus 
 nimble in reply, but shall always have great pleasure in 
 answering you when I can. 
 
 " Yours, my dear friend and cousin, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 In another letter Lady Hesketh inquired into the state 
 of his finances, apprehending that his income must needs 
 be a straitened one, and oftering him such assistance as she 
 was able to afford. He replied thus : — 
 
 " Olney, Nov. 9, 1785. 
 
 "My dearest Cousin, — Whose last most affectionate 
 letter has run in my head ever since I received it, and 
 which I now sit down to answer two days sooner than the 
 post will serve me ; I thank you for it, and with a warmth 
 for which I am sure you will give me credit, though I do 
 not spend many words in describing it. I do not seek 
 new friends, not being altogether sure that I should find 
 them, but have unspeakable pleasure in being still beloved 
 by an old one. I hope that now our correspondence has 
 suffered its last interruption, and that we shall go down 
 together to the grave, chatting and chirping as merrily as 
 such a scene of things as this will permit. 
 
 " I am happy that my poems have pleased you. My 
 volume has afforded me no such pleasure at any time, 
 either while I was writing it, or since its publication, as I 
 have derived from yours and my uncle's opinion of it. I 
 make certain allowances for partiality, and for that pecu-
 
 RENEWED INTERCOURSE WITH HIS FAMILY. 115 
 
 liar quickness of taste with which you both relish what 
 you like, and, after all drawbacks upon those accounts 
 duly made, find myself rich in the measure of your appro- 
 bation that still remains. But, above all, I honour John 
 Gilpin, since it was he who first encouraged you to write. 
 I made him on puri)ose to laugh at, and he served his 
 purpose well ; but I am now in debt to him for a more 
 valuable acquisition than all the laughter in the world 
 amounts to, — the recovery of my intercourse with you, 
 which is to me inestimable. My benevolent and generous 
 cousin, when I was once asked if I wanted anything, and 
 given delicately to understand that the inquirer was ready 
 to supply all my occasions, I thankfully and civilly, but 
 positively, declined the favour. I neither suffer, nor have 
 suffered, any such inconveniences as I had not much rather 
 endure than come under obligations of that sort to a person 
 comparatively with yourself a stranger to me. But to you 
 I answer otherwise. I know you thoi-oughly, and the li- 
 berality of your disposition, and have that consummate 
 confidence in the sincerity of your wish to serve me, that 
 delivers me from all awkward constraint, and from all fear 
 of trespassing by acceptance. To yoUj therefore, I reply, 
 Yes. Whensoever, and whatsoevei', and in what manner 
 soever you please ; and add, moreover, that my affection 
 for the giver is such as will increase to me tenfold the 
 satisfaction that I shall have in receiving. It is necessary, 
 however, that I should let you a little into the state of my 
 finances, that you may not suppose them more narrowly 
 circumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Unwin and I 
 have lived at Olney we have had but one purse, although 
 during the whole of that time, till lately, her income was 
 nearly double mine. Her revenues, indeed, are now in 
 some measure reduced, and do not much exceed my own ; 
 the worst consequence of this is, that we are forced to 
 deny ourselves some things which hitherto we have been 
 better able to afford, but they are such things as neither 
 hfe, nor the well-being of life, depend upon. My own 
 income has been better than it is ; but when it was best, 
 it would not have enabled me to live as my connexions 
 demanded that I should, had it not been combined with a
 
 116 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 better than itself, at least at this end of the kingdom. Of 
 this I had full proof during three months that I spent in 
 lodgings at Huntingdon ; in which time, by the help of 
 good management, and a clear notion of economical mat- 
 ters, I contrived to spend the income of a twelvemonth. 
 Now, my beloved cousin, you are in possession of the 
 whole case as it stands. Strain no points to your own 
 inconvenience or hurt, for there is no need of it ; but 
 indulge yourself in communicating (no matter what) that 
 you can spare without missing it, since by so doing you 
 will be sure to add to the comforts of my hfe one of the 
 sweetest that I can enjoy — a token and proof of your 
 affection. 
 
 " I cannot believe but that I should know you, notwith- 
 standing all that time may have done ; there is not a 
 feature of your face, could I meet it upon the road by 
 itself, that I should not instantly recollect. I should say, 
 That is my cousin's nose, or those are her hps and her 
 chin, and no woman vipon earth can claim them but her- 
 self. As for me, I am a very smart youth of my years ; I 
 am not, indeed, gi'own grey, so much as I am grown bald. 
 No matter : there was more hair in the world than ever 
 had the honour to belong to me ; accordingly, having 
 found just enough to curl a little at my ears, and to inter- 
 mix with a little of my own that still hangs behind, I 
 appear, if you see me of an afternoon, to have a very decent 
 head-dress, not easily distinguished from my natural growth, 
 which being worn with a smaU bag, and a black riband 
 about my neck, continues to me the charms of my youth, 
 even on the verge of age. Away with the fear of writing 
 too often ! 
 
 "W. C. 
 
 «P.S. — That the view I give you of myself may be 
 complete, I add the two following items — That I am in 
 debt to nobody, and that I grow fat." 
 
 The ice having been thus broken, the two cousins became 
 frequent correspondents, and other members of the family 
 followed Lady Heskcth's example. General Cowper ten-
 
 RENEWED INTERCOURSE WITH HIS FAMILY. 117 
 
 dered counsel as to tlie projected translation of Homer ; 
 and even promised a visit to Olncy, which his infirmities, 
 however, prevented. A minor circumstance throws hght 
 upon the past years of silence and distance. Lady Hesketh 
 gave Cowper a hint to be careful of obtruding religious 
 conversation on the General in his expected visit to Olney. 
 
 Cowper replies as follows : — 
 
 " As to the affair of religious conversation, fear me not, 
 lest I should trespass upon his peace in that way. Your 
 views, my dear, upon the subject of a proper conduct in 
 that particular, are mine also. When I left St. Alban's, I 
 Icffit under impressions of the existence of a God, and of 
 the truth of scripture, that I had never felt before. I had 
 unspeakable delight in the discovery, and was impatient to 
 communicate a pleasure to others that I found so superior 
 to everything that bears the name. This eagerness of 
 spirit, natural to persons newly informed, and the less to 
 be wondered at in me, who had just emerged from the 
 horrors of despair, made me imprudent, and, I doubt not, 
 troublesome to many. Forgetting that I had not those 
 blessings at my command which it is God's peculiar prero- 
 gative to impart, — spiritual light and affections, I required 
 in effect of all with whom I conversed, that they should see 
 with my eyes ; and stood amazed that the Gospel, which 
 with me was all in all, should meet with opposition, or 
 should occasion disgust in any. But the Gospel could not 
 be the word of God if it did not ; for it foretells its own 
 reception among men, and describes it as exactly such. 
 Good is intended, but harm is done, too often, by the zeal 
 with which I was at that time animated. But, as in affairs 
 of this life, so in religious concerns likewise, experience 
 begets some wisdom in all who are not incapable of being 
 taught. I do not now, neither have I for a long time, made 
 it my practice to force the subject of evangelical truth on 
 any. I received it not from man myself, neither can any 
 man receive it from me. God is light, and from him all 
 light must come ; to his teaching, therefore, I leave those 
 whom I was once so alert to instruct myself. If a man 
 asks my opinion, or calls for an account of my faith, he 
 shall have it ; otherwise I trouble him not. Pulpits for
 
 118 LIFE OF ■^ILLIAJVI COWPER. 
 
 preaching ; and the parlour, the garden, and the walk 
 abroad for friendly and agreeable conversation." 
 
 This change in the poet's habits and mode of thinking 
 naturally pleases Southey. "We shall pronounce no opinion 
 on the matter, but shaU merely offer one remark. 
 
 When at Huntingdon, in full possession of his senses, 
 and rejoicing in the light of God's countenance, he could 
 not write to his dearest friends. Lady Hesketh and Mr. 
 Hill, without " communicating the pleasure which he 
 felt," and wishing them "to see with his eyes." After- 
 wards, at Olney, as he teUs us above, his views and his 
 practice wei'e wholly changed. But it should be remem- 
 bered that this change took place when his own views 
 as to himself were wholly changed also, — when he groaned 
 under the mental delusion that he was an unpardoned 
 sinner, and that his end must be perdition. Whether his 
 judgment while in the latter state can reasonably be pre- 
 ferred to his judgment while in the former, we shall leave 
 to our readers to decide. 
 
 But another correspondent now appeared, and one of a 
 peculiar character. Just at this 2^enod, when, through Lady 
 Hesketh, other relatives coiUd hear of his state and of his 
 circumstances, letters reached him from an anonymous cor- 
 respondent, who spoke of " having been lately present in a 
 company where his intended publication (of Homer) was 
 mentioned ;" and this, as his intentions were not yet pub- 
 licly announced, must have been a circle of his own relatives 
 and connexions. " Anonymous" then went on to say, that 
 " when shut up in his chamber an apprehension seized 
 him, that the work might fall short of its expected success, 
 and that the mortification might affect his health." Pro- 
 ceeding to ofler motives for encouragement, the writer ended 
 by " lamenting the poet's narrow circumstances, and pre- 
 senting him with an annuity of 5(¥., wishing it were 500Z." 
 
 And if any doubt could exist as to this anonymous 
 correspondent, that doubt must be dispelled ; for soon 
 after followed various packets, each containing, as Southey 
 remarks, some " womanly present." To Lady Hesketh, 
 Cowper acknowledges one of these packages, saying, — 
 
 " It is very pleasant, my dearest cousin, to receive a
 
 RENEWED rNTERCOURSE WITH HIS FAMILY. 119 
 
 present so delicately conveyed as that which I received so 
 lately from 'Anonymous;' but it is also very painful to 
 have nobody to thank for it. I find myself, therefore, 
 driven by stress of necessity to the following resolution, 
 viz. that I will constitute you my Thanks-receiver-general 
 for whatsoever gift I shall receive hereafter, as well as for 
 those that I have already received from a nameless bene- 
 factor. I therefore thank you, my cousin, for a most 
 elegant present, including the most elegant compliment 
 that ever poet was honoured with ; for a snufi'-box of 
 tortoise-shell, with a beautiful landscape on the lid of it, 
 glazed with crystal, having the figures of three hares in 
 the foreground, and inscribed above with these words — 
 The Peasant's Nest, and below with these — Tiney, Ptcss, 
 and Bess. For all and every of these I thank you, and also 
 for standing proxy on this occasion. Nor must I forget 
 to thank you that, so soon after that I sent you the first 
 letter of Anonymous, I received another in the same hand. 
 — There ! Now I am a little easier." 
 
 StiU fui-ther demonstration was given on another occa- 
 sion, when " Anonymous," in a letter, alluded to a httle 
 piece entitled " The Drop of Ink," of which Cowper re- 
 marks — " The only copy I ever gave of that piece, I gave 
 to yourself (Lady Hesketh). It is possible, therefore, that 
 between you and Anonymous there may be some com- 
 munication." 
 
 It is curious to see how, in all these communications 
 to Lady Hesketh, the name of her sister is never mentioned, 
 or in the slightest degree alluded to. Yet, as Southey 
 remarks, " who but Theodora could it have been, who was 
 thus intimate with Lady Hesketh, and felt tiiis deep and 
 lively regard for Cowper ? " 
 
 Lady Hesketh herself had frankly offered her purse, 
 and her offer, as we have seen, had been willingly embraced 
 by Cow]^)er. His relatives in town, without concealment 
 and without ostentation, made up for him an annual in- 
 come. Mere friends often, without any shyness or prudery, 
 sometimes made him presents. But icho, except Theodora, 
 could have felt so deep and constant an interest in him, 
 and yet have felt obliged to use a mask ]
 
 120 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Yet Theodora could not but use a mask. Though the 
 cousins were now both in middle age, and had not met 
 for nearly thirty years, still natural feeling would not allow 
 a woman avowedly to seek a man who did not seek her. 
 To indulge her inmost feeling, therefore, she must of 
 necessity shroud herself from sight. 
 
 As to Cowper, while his studied avoidance of all allusion 
 to his once-loved cousin shows of itself his perfect con- 
 sciousness of the source whence these gifts came, it is 
 quite clear that he could not possibly take any other course 
 than that which he did take. Had he lifted the veil — had 
 he even hinted a suspicion that Theodora was the bene- 
 factor — the natural feeling of a man would have forced 
 him to decline these gifts. But how could he do tliis 1 — 
 how could he inflict the deepest of all wounds on a heart 
 whose sorrows must have penetrated his own ? What 
 could he do, but feign wonderment and an ignorant 
 curiosity, and to beg Lady Hesketh, at one time, " to 
 signify the safe arrival of a most acceptable present, and 
 my most grateful sense of it ; " and at another, " to make 
 my acknowledgments of gi-atitude and love ? " 
 
 And here we close this little "romance of domestic 
 life." The cousins never met, — never had any other inter- 
 course than that which we have described above. Miss 
 Cowper long survived the object of her ceaseless attach- 
 ment ; djdng, at a very advanced age, at Richmond, in 
 Surrey, and being inten-ed in the quiet little church of 
 Petei'sham, in the year 1824. Her long-cherished relics of 
 her youthful admirer she had committed to the care of 
 the daughter of her sister, Lady Croft, a year or two before 
 her decease. 
 
 But now commences a new stage in the poet's life. 
 We have seen him recovered from the depths of insanity, 
 and placed, for a few years, in circumstances peculiarly 
 favourable to his spiritual peace and earthly comfort. 
 But, after a short space of time, he is permitted once more 
 to fall under the dominion of mental disease, and to be- 
 come subject to a delusion from which he never again 
 becomes entirely free.
 
 REXEWED INTERCOURSE WITH HIS FAMILY. 121 
 
 The Tempter impresses strongly upon his mind the 
 conviction that he has sinned the unpardonable sin, and is 
 now finally sentenced to everlasting perdition. All reason- 
 ing is rendered futile by the artful plea, that " his is a 
 special case, and that the general laws of the universe, 
 and the various invitations of the Gospel, have no bearing 
 upon his circumstances." Then follow the natural conse- 
 quences of such a temptation. He holds himself unworthy 
 to approach God, and as prohibited from the very attempt. 
 Prayer, whether in pubUc or private, is held to be forbidden 
 to him. " Even at table," says Mr. Bull, " when a blessing 
 was asked, he would sit down, denoting that he could not 
 ask a blessing." Thus all communication between God 
 and his soul, of the ordinary kind, was terminated ; and 
 it only remained for his Saviour to break these fearful 
 chains, if he pleased, in this life, — if not, in the life to 
 come. 
 
 It does not appear that this delusion of Satan was 
 destroyed in this life. From his forty-second year till his 
 seventieth he seems to have remained in this bondage. 
 Why this was so, none in this life can tell. The Ruler of 
 all things " giveth no account of any of his matters." Why 
 one Christian is left to groan in agony for years together, 
 on a bed of hopeless suffering ; or why another is cast 
 down from comfort or opulence to poverty and wretched- 
 ness, we know not. But " the Day shall declare it." At 
 present it is night over our globe, and we see only " through 
 a glass, darkly P Many things, the form and reality of 
 which we cannot now understand, will then be seen in 
 their true hght. Meanwhile we need not wonder greatly 
 at Cowper's sufferings, " as though some strange thing 
 had happened unto him ;" for " the cave of Giant Despair" 
 lies hard by the road to the heavenly city, and many 
 Christians fall into the monster's hands. The same cala- 
 mity does not befal the devotee of this world, for he 
 enters not even on the first steps of that road which leads 
 near the giant's demesne. "They are not plagued like 
 other men ;" " there are no bands in their death ;" against 
 them Satan shoots no such arrows. 
 
 But while Cowper thus remained under this fearful
 
 122 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 delusion for almost thirty years, there were various stages 
 and degrees of severity in the affliction. At the worst, it 
 was "horror and despair." But this was only for short 
 l^eriods — a few months at a time, in 1773, in 1787, and in 
 1794. At other times he could be cheerful, — could enjoy 
 the society of Lady Austen, of Lady Hesketh, and of his 
 neighbours the Throckmortons, and give no sign, by word 
 or action, of the despondency that reigned within. 
 
 The intercourse with his cousin Harriet having been 
 renewed, it soon became one main object with him to 
 draw her to Oluey. This he accomplished in the following 
 year. In May, 1786, he writes to her : — 
 
 " Assure yourself, my dearest cousin, that both for 
 your sake, since you make a point of it, and for my own, I 
 will be as j)hilosophically careful as possible, that these 
 fine nerves of mine shall not be beyond measure agitated 
 when you arrive. In truth, there is much greater proba- 
 biUty that they will be benefited, and greatly, too. Joy of 
 heart, from whatever occasion it may arise, is the best of 
 all nervous medicines ; and T should not wonder if such a 
 turn given to my spirits should have even a lasting effect 
 of the most advantageous kind upon them. You must not 
 imagine, either, that I am, on the whole, in any great degree 
 subject to nervous affections. Occasionally I am, and have 
 been these many years, much liable to dejection ; but at 
 intervals, and sometimes for an interval of weeks, no crea- 
 ture would suspect it. For I have not that which com- 
 monly is a symptom of such a case, belonging to me, — I 
 mean, extraordinary elevation in the absence of Mr. Blue- 
 devil. When I am in the best health, my tide of animal 
 sprightliness flows with great equality ; so that I am 
 never, at any time, exalted in proportion as I am some- 
 times depressed. My depression has a cause, and if that 
 cause were to cease, I should be as cheerful thenceforth — 
 and, perhaps, for ever — as any man need be. But, as I 
 have often said, Mrs. Unwin shall be my expositor. 
 
 " Adieu, my beloved cousin. God grant that our friend- 
 ship, which, while we could see each other, never suffered 
 a moment's interruption, and which so long a separation 
 has not in the least abated, may glow in us to our last
 
 RENEWED INTERCOURSE WITH HIS FASHLY. 123 
 
 hour, and be renewed in a better world, there to be per- 
 petuated for ever. 
 
 " For you must know, that I should not love you half 
 so well, if I did not believe you would be my friend to 
 eternity, There is not roona enough for friendship to 
 unfold itself in full bloom in such a nook of life as this. 
 Thei'ofore I am, and must, and will be, 
 
 " Yours for ever, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 "When this passage was written, it is evident that his 
 mind was not under the power of that idea which charac- 
 terised his insanity. And at this time, even in his darker 
 moods, he spoke of his own state hopefully : — 
 
 " I have made your heart ache too often," said he, " my 
 poor, dear cousin, with talking about my fits of dejection. 
 Something has happened that has led me to the subject, or 
 I would have mentioned them more sparingly. Do not 
 suppose, or suspect, that I treat you with reserve ; there 
 is nothing in which I am concerned that you shall not be 
 made acquainted with : but the tale is too long for a letter. 
 I wiU only add, for your present satisfaction, that the 
 cause is not exterior, that it is not within the reach of 
 human aid, and that yet I have a hope myself, and Mrs. 
 Unwin a strong persuasion, of its removal. I am, indeed, 
 even now, and have been for a considerable time, sensible 
 of a change for the better, and expect, with good reason, a 
 comfortable lift from you. Guess then, my beloved cousin, 
 with what wishes I look forward to the time of your 
 arrival, from whose coming I promise myself, not only 
 pleasure, but peace of mind, — at least, an additional share 
 of it. At present it is an uncertain and transient guest 
 with me, but the joy with which I shall see and converse 
 with you at Olney, may, perhaps, make it an abiding 
 one." 
 
 We must not, however, leave the portrait unfinished, by 
 neglecting to give the reader a letter, wa-itten about the 
 same period, to another friend, Mr. Newton, to whom 
 Cowjier could more fvdly explain his inmost feelings. To 
 Mr. N. he writes thus : —
 
 124 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 " Olney, 3Iay 20, 1786. 
 " My clear Friend, — Within this hour arrived three sets 
 of your new publication, for which we sincerely thank you. 
 We have breakfasted since they came, and consequently, as 
 you may suppose, have neither of us had yet an opportu- 
 nity to make ourselves acquainted with the contents. I 
 shall be happy (and when I say that, I mean to be under- 
 stood in the fullest and most emphatical sense of the word) 
 if my frame of mind shall be such as may permit me to 
 study them. But Adam's approach to the tree of life, after 
 he had sinned, was not more effectually prohibited by the 
 flaming sword that turned every way, than mine to its 
 great Antitype has been now almost these thirteen years ; 
 a short interval of three or four days, which passed about 
 this time twelvemonth, alone excepted. For what reason 
 it is that I am thus long excluded, if I am ever again to be 
 admitted, is known to God only. I can say but this : that 
 if he is still my Father, this paternal severity has toward 
 me been such as that I have reason to account it unex- 
 ampled. For though others have suffered desertion, yet 
 few, I believe, for so long a time, and perhaps none a 
 desertion accompanied with such experiences. But they 
 have this belonging to them, that, as they are not fit for 
 recital, being made up merely of infernal iugi-edients, so 
 neither are they susceptible of it ; for I know no language 
 in which they could be expressed. They are as truly things 
 which it is not possible for man to utter, as those were 
 which Paul heard and saw in the third heaven. If the 
 ladder of Christian experience reaches, as I suppose it does, 
 to the very presence of God, it has, nevertheless, its foot in 
 the abyss. And if Paul stood, as no doubt he did, in that 
 experience of his to which I have just alluded, on the top- 
 most round of it, I have been standing, and still stand, on 
 the lowest, in this thirteenth year that has passed since I 
 descended. In such a situation of mind, encompassed by 
 the midnight of absolute despair, and a thousand times 
 filled with unspeakable horror, I first commenced an author. 
 Distress drove me to it, and the impossibility of subsisting 
 without some emjiloyment still recommends it. I am 
 not, indeed, so perfectly hopeless as I was; but I am
 
 RE^'EWED INTERCOURSE WITH HIS FAiHLT. 125 
 
 equally in need of an occupation, being often as much, and 
 sometimes even more, worried than ever. I cannot amuse 
 myself as I once could, with carpenters' or with gardeners' 
 tools, or with squirrels and guinea-pigs. At that time I 
 was a child. But since it has pleased God, whatever else 
 he withholds, to restore to me a man's mind, I have put 
 away childish things. Thus far, therefore, it is plain that 
 I have not chosen or prescribed to myself my own way, 
 but have been providentially led to it ; perhaps I might 
 say, wnth equal propriety, compelled and scourged into it : 
 for certainly, could I have made my choice, or were I per- 
 mitted to make it even now, those hours which I spend 
 in poetry I would spend \vith God. But it is evidently his 
 will that I should spend them as I do, because every other 
 way of employing them he himself continues to make im- 
 possible. If, in the course of such an occupation, or by 
 inevitable consequence of it, either my former connexions 
 are revived or new ones occur, these things are as much a 
 part of the dispensation as the leading points of it them- 
 selves ; the effect as much as the cause. If his purposes 
 in thus directing me are gracious, he will take care to 
 prove them such in the issue ; and in the meantime will 
 preserve me (for he is able to do that in one condition of 
 life as in another) from all mistakes in conduct that might 
 prove pernicious to myself, or give reasonable offence to 
 others. I can say it as truly as it was ever spoken — ' Here 
 I am : let him do with me as seemeth him good.' 
 
 "At present, however, I have no connexions at which 
 either you, I trust, or any who love me and wish me well, 
 have occasion to conceive alarm. Much kindness, indeed, I 
 have experienced at the hands of several, some of them 
 near relations, others not related to me at all; but I do 
 not know that there is among them a single person from 
 whom I am likely to catch contamination. I can say of 
 them all, with more truth than Jacob uttered when he 
 called kid venison, ' The Lord thy God brought them unto 
 me.' I could show you among them two men, whose lives, 
 though they have but httle of what we call evangelical 
 light, are ornaments to a Christian country ; men who fear 
 God more than some who even profess to love him. But I
 
 126 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 will not particularise fai'ther on sucli a subject. Be they 
 what they may, our situations are so distant, and we are 
 likely to meet so seldom, that were they, as they are not, 
 persons of even exceptionable manners, their manners would 
 have little to do with me. We correspond at present only 
 on the subject of what passed at Troy three thousand years 
 ago ; and they are matters that, if they can do no good, 
 will, at least, hurt nobody. 
 
 " Your friendship for me, and the proof that I see of it 
 in your friendly concern for my welfare on this occasion, 
 demanded that I should be expUcit. Assure yourself that 
 I love and honour you, as upon all accounts, so especially 
 for the interest that you take, and have ever taken, in my 
 welfare, most sincerely. I wish you all happiness in your 
 new abode, all possible success in your ministry, and much 
 fruit of your newly-published labours, and am, with Mrs. 
 Unwin's love to yourself and Mrs. Newton, 
 " Most affectionately yours, 
 
 " My dear friend, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 Lady Hesketh arrived at Olney about the middle of 
 June. 
 
 "I am fond of the sound of bells," says Cowper, "but 
 was never more pleased with those of Olney, than when 
 they rang her into her new habitation. It is a compli- 
 ment that our performers upon those instruments have 
 never paid to any other personage (Lord Dartmouth ex- 
 cepted) since we knew the town. In short, she is, as she 
 ever was, my pride and my joy, and I am delighted at 
 everything that means to do her honour. Her first ap- 
 pearance was too nuich for me ; my spirits, instead of 
 being greatly raised, as I had inadvertently supposed they 
 would be, broke down with me, under the pressure of too 
 much joy, and left me flat — or, rather, melancholy — through- 
 out the day, to a degree that was mortifying to myself, and 
 alarming to her. But I have made amends for this failure 
 since, and, in point of cheerfulness, have far exceeded her 
 expectations, for she knew that sable had been my suit for 
 many years."
 
 RENEWED INTERCOURSE WITH HIS FAMILY. 127 
 
 To Hill he said that his dear cousin's arrival had made 
 them happier than they ever were before at Olney, and 
 that her company was a cordial of which he should feel the 
 effect, not only while she remained there, but as long as he 
 lived. He wrote cheerfully, also, to Mr. Newton : — 
 
 " It was an observation," said he, " of a sensible man 
 whom I knew well in ancient days (I mean when I was 
 very young), that people are never in reality happy when 
 they boast much of being so. I feel myself, accordingly, 
 well content to say, without any enlargement on the sub- 
 ject, that an inquirer after happiness might travel far, and 
 not find a happier trio than meet every day either in our 
 I^arlour, or in the parlour of the vicarage. I wiU not say 
 that mine is not occasionally somewhat dashed with the 
 sable hue of those notions concerning myself and my 
 situation that have occupied — or, rather, possessed — me so 
 long ; but, on the other hand, I can also affirm that my 
 cousin's affectionate behaviour to us both, the sweetness of 
 her tempei-, and the sprightliuess of her conversation, re- 
 lieve me in no small degree from the presence of them." 
 
 Once more in the society of her cousin, whom she had 
 not seen for twenty-three years, it was natural that Lady 
 Hesketh should give her sister Theodora some account of 
 his circumstances, condition, and employments. A frag- 
 ment of one or two of these letters has been presei-ved, and 
 we shall here introduce them : — 
 
 " He delights in the place, and likes the inhabitants 
 much ; and as they would greatly relieve the cruel solitude 
 he lives in, I wish he could, with ease to himself, see as 
 much of them as possible, for I am sure a little variety of 
 company and a little cheerful society is necessary to him. 
 j\rrs. Unwin seems quite to think so, and expresses the 
 gi-eatest satisfaction that he has within the last year con- 
 sented to mix a little more with human creatures. As to 
 her, she does seem in real truth to have no will left on 
 earth but for his good, and literally no will but his. How 
 she has supported herself (as she has done !), the constant 
 attendance day and night, which she has gone through for 
 the last thii'teen years, is to me, I confess, incredible. And 
 in justice to her, I must say, she does it all with an ease
 
 128 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 that relieves you from any idea of its being a state of 
 suffering. She speaks of him in the highest terms ; and 
 by her astonishing management, he is never mentioned in 
 Olney but with the highest respect and veneration." 
 
 " Our friend," says Lady Hesketh in another fragment, 
 " delights in a large table and a large chair. There are two 
 of the latter comforts in my parlour. I am sorry to say, 
 that he and I always spread ourselves out on them, leaving 
 poor Mrs. Unwin to find all the comfort she can in a small 
 one, half as high again as ours, and considerably harder 
 than marble. However, she protests it is what she likes, 
 that she prefers a high chair to a low one, and a hard to a 
 soft one ; and I hope she is sincere : indeed, I am per- 
 suaded she is. Her constant employment is knitting 
 stockings, which she does with the finest needles I ever 
 saw ; and very nice they are, — the stockings, I mean. Our 
 cousin has not for many years worn any other than those 
 of her manufacture. She knits silk, cotton, and worsted. 
 She sits knitting on one side of the table in her spectacles 
 and he on the other reading to her (when he is not em- 
 ployed in wi-iting) in his. In winter, his morning studies 
 are always carried on in a room by himself; but as his 
 evenings are spent in the winter in transcribing, he usually, 
 I find, does them vis-d-vis Mrs. Unwin. At this time of 
 the year he writes always in the morning, in what he 
 calls his boudoir; this is in the garden: it has a door 
 and a window ; just holds a small table with a desk 
 and two chairs ; but though there are two chairs, and 
 two persons might be contained therein, it would be 
 with a degree of difficulty. For this cause, — as I make 
 a point of not disturbing a poet in his retreat, I go not 
 there.'' 
 
 Lady Hesketh was not slow in discovering the faults 
 and discomforts of Cowper's abode in the middle of the 
 town of Olney, and she soon determined on removing him 
 to a more suitable residence. This presented itself in the 
 neighbouring village of Weston, where the vicarage, a 
 pleasant abode, happened to be vacant. 
 
 On this subject Cowpcr thus writes to his friend 
 Unwin : —
 
 RENEWED INTERCOURSE WITH HIS FAMILY. 129 
 
 " Olneji, .hihj 3, 1786. 
 
 " My dear William — After a long silence I begin again. 
 
 A day given to my friends is a day taken from Homer, but 
 
 to such an interruption now and then occurring I have no 
 
 objection. Lady Hesketh is, as you observe, arrived, and 
 
 has been with us nearly a fortnight. She pleases everybody, 
 
 and is pleased, in her turn, with everything she finds at 
 
 Olney; is always cheerful and sweet-tempered, and knows 
 
 no pleasure equal to that of communicating pleasure to 
 
 us and to all around her. This disposition in her is the 
 
 more comfortiible, because it is not the humour of the day ; 
 
 a sudden Hash of benevolence and good spirits occasioned 
 
 merely by a change of scene, but it is her natural turn, and 
 
 has governed all her conduct ever since I knew her first. 
 
 We are consequently happy in her society, and shall be 
 
 happier still to have you partake with us in our joy. 
 ***** 
 
 " And now I shall communicate news that will give you 
 pleasure. When you first contemplated the front of our 
 abode, you were shocked. In your eyes it had the ap- 
 pearance of a prison, and you sighed at the thought that 
 your mother lived in it. Your view of it was not only just 
 ])ut prophetic. It had not only the aspect of a place built 
 for the purposes of incarceration, but has actually served 
 that purpose through a long, long period, and we have been 
 the prisoners. But a gaol-delivery is at hand. The bolts 
 and bars are to be loosed, and we shall escape. A very dif- 
 ferent mansion, both in point of ajipearance and accommo- 
 dation, expects us, and the expense of living in it is not 
 greater than we are subjected. to in this. It is situated at 
 Weston, one of the prettiest villages in England, and be- 
 longs to Mr. Throckmorton. AVe all three dine with him 
 tc-day by invitation, and shall survey it in the afternoon, 
 point out the necessary repairs, and finally adjust the 
 treaty. I have my cousin's promise that she will never 
 let another year pass without a visit to us, and the house is 
 large enough to take us and our suite, and her also, with as 
 many of hers as she shall choose to bring. The change 
 will, I hope, prove advantageous both to your mother and 
 mc in all respects. Here we have no neighbourhood, there 
 
 K
 
 130 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 we shall have most agreeable neighbours in the Throck- 
 mortons. Here we have a bad air in winter, impregnated 
 with the fishy-smelling fumes of the marsh miasma ; there 
 we shall breathe in an atmosphere untainted. Here we are 
 confined from September to March, and sometimes longer ; 
 there we shall be upon the very verge of pleasure-grounds 
 in which we can always ramble, and sliall not wade through 
 almost impassable dirt to get at them. Both your mothei-'s 
 constitution and mine have suffered materially by such 
 close and long confinement ; and it is high time, unless we 
 intend to retreat into the grave, that we should seek out a 
 more wholesome residence. So far is well, the rest is left 
 to Heaven. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 To Mr. Newton he makes known his purpose in the fol- 
 lowing letter : — 
 
 " Avg. .5, 1786. 
 
 " My dear Friend, — You have heard of our intended 
 removal. The house that is to receive us is in a state of 
 preparation, and, when finished, will be both smarter and 
 more commodious than our present abode. But the cir- 
 cumstance that recommends it chiefly is its situation. 
 Long confinement in the winter, and indeed for the most 
 part in the autumn too, has hurt us both. A gravel-walk, 
 thirty yards long, affords but indifferent scope to the loco- 
 motive faculty ; yet it is all that we have had to move in 
 for eight months in the year, during thirteen years that I 
 have been a prisoner. Had I been confined in the Tower, 
 the battlements of it would have furnished me with a 
 larger space. You say well, that there was a time when I 
 was happy at Olney ; and I am now as happy at Olney as 
 I expect to be anywhere without the presence of God. 
 Change of situation is with me no otherwise an object, 
 than as both Mrs. Un win's health and mine may happen 
 to be concerned in it. A fever of the slow and spirit- 
 oppressing kind seems to belong to all, except the natives, 
 who have dwelt in Olney many years ; and the natives have 
 putrid fevers. Both they and we, I believe, are imme-
 
 RENEWED INTERCOURSE WITH HIS FAMILY. 131 
 
 (liately indebted for our respective maladies to an atmo- 
 sphere encumbered with raw vapours issuing from flooded 
 meadows : and we in particular, perhaps, have fared the 
 worse, for sitting so often, and sometimes for months, over 
 a cellar filled with water. These ills we shall escape in the 
 uplands : and as we may reasonably hope, of course, their 
 consequences. But as for happiness, he that has once had 
 communion with his Maker must be more frantic than 
 I ever was yet, if he can dream of finding it at a distance 
 from Him. I no more expect happiness at Weston than 
 here, or than I should expect it in company with felons and 
 outlaws in the hold of a ballast-lighter. Animal spirits, 
 however, have their value, and are especially desirable to 
 him who is condemned to carry a burthen, which at any 
 rate will tire him, but which, without their aid, cannot fail 
 to crush him. The dealings of God with me are to myself 
 utterly unintelligible. I have never met, either in books or 
 in conversation, with an experience at all similar to my own. 
 More than a twelvemonth has passed since I began to hope 
 that, having walked the whole breadth of the bottom of this 
 Red Sea, I was beginning to climb the ojjposite shore ; and 
 I jirepared to sing the song of Moses. But I have been 
 disapi^ointed : those hopes have been blasted ; those com- 
 forts have been wrested from me. I could not be so duped, 
 even by the arch-enemy himself, as to be made to question 
 the divine nature of them : but I have been made to be- 
 lieve (which, you will say, is being duped still more) that 
 God gave them to me in derision, and took them away 
 in vengeance. Such, however, is, and has been my per- 
 suasion, many a long day ; and when I shall think on that 
 subject more comfortably, or, as you will be inclined to 
 tell me, more rationally and scripturally, I know not. In 
 the meantime I embrace with alacrity every alleviation 
 of my case ; and with the more alacrity, because, what- 
 soever proves a relief of my distress, is a cordial to Mrs. 
 Unwin, whose sympathy with me, through the whole of it, 
 has been such, that, despair excepted, her burthen has been 
 as heavy as mine. Lady Hesketh, by her aftectionate 
 behaviour, the cheerfulness of her conversation, and the 
 constant sweetness of her temper, has cheered us both ;
 
 132 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 and Mrs. Unwin not less than me. By her help we get 
 change of air and of scene, though still resident at Ohiey ; 
 and by her means have uitercourse with some families in 
 this country, with whom, bvit for her, we could never have 
 been acquainted. Her presence here would, at any time, 
 even in my happiest days, have been a comfort to me ; 
 but in the present day, I am doubly sensible of its value. 
 She leaves nothing unsaid, nothing undone, that she thinks 
 will be conducive to our well-being ; and, so far as she is 
 concerned, I have nothing to wish, but that I could be- 
 lieve her sent hither in mercy to myself — then I should be 
 thankful 
 
 " Yours as ever, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 Lady Hesketh\s presence, and the intimacy now gi'o-unng 
 up between Cowper and the Throckmortons, soon pro- 
 duced one result, which will surprise no one who is ac- 
 quainted with the love of scandal which is sure to exist in 
 the society of a small market-town. A communication 
 was made to Mr. Newton, by some person or persons in 
 Olney, to the effect that both Cowj^er and Mrs. Unwin 
 wei-e straying into forbidden paths, and were leading a life 
 unbecoming the Gospel ; that friends were grieved, and the 
 simple people of Olney astonished, &c. &c. We have not 
 Llr. Newton's letter on the siibject, but it appears pro- 
 bable, from Cowjier's reply, that Mr. N. gave too entire a 
 credence to these reports, and wrote to the poet with alarm 
 and grief. The reply we can give ; from which the tone of 
 ]\Ir. Newton's reproof may be gathered : — 
 
 " Olney, Sejit. 30, 178G. 
 "My dear Friend, — No length of separation will ever 
 make us indifferent either to your pleasures or your pains. 
 We rejoice that you have had so agreeable a jaunt, and 
 (excepting Mrs. Newton's terrible fall, from which, how- 
 ever, we are happy to find that she received so little injury) 
 a safe return. We, who live always encompassed by rural 
 scenery, can afford to be stationary ; though we ourselves, 
 were I not too closely engaged with Homer, should, per- 
 haps, foUow your examj)le, and seek a little refreshment
 
 RENEWED INTERCOURSE WITH HIS FAMILY. 133 
 
 from variety and change of place, — a course that we might 
 find not only agreeable, but, after a sameness of thirteen 
 years, perhaps usefiU. You must, midoubtedly, have found 
 your excursion beneficial, who at all other times endure, if 
 not so close a confinement as we, yet a more unhealthy one, 
 in city air, and in the centre of continual engagements. 
 
 "Yovir letter to Mrs. Uuwin concerning our conduct, 
 and the ofifence taken at it in our neighbourhood, gave us 
 both a great deal of concern ; and she is still deeply 
 aflPected by it. Of this you may assure yourself, that if our 
 friends in Loudon have been grieved, they have been mis- 
 informed ; which is the more probable, because the bearers 
 of intelligence hence to London are not always very scrupu- 
 lous concerning the truth of their reports ; and that if any 
 of our serious neighbours have been astonished, they have 
 been so without the smallest real occasion. Poor people 
 are never weU employed even when they judge one an- 
 other ; but when they undertake to scan the motives and 
 estimate the behaviour of those whom Providence has 
 exalted a little above them, they are utterly out of their 
 province and their depth. They often see- us get into 
 Lady Hesketh's carriage, and rather uncharitably suppose 
 that it always carries us into a scene of dissipation ; which, 
 in fact, it never does. We visit, indeed, at Mr. Throck- 
 morton's, and at Gayhurst ; rarely, however, at Gayhurst, 
 on account of the gi-eater distance : more frequently, 
 though not very frequently, at Weston, both becaujse it is 
 nearer, and because our business in the house that is making 
 ready for us often calls us that way. The rest of our 
 journeys are to Bozeat turnpike and back again ; or, per- 
 haps, to the cabinet-maker's at Newport. As Othello says, — 
 
 ' The very head and front of my oifending 
 Hath tliis extent, no more.' 
 
 What good we can get or can do in these visits is another 
 question, which they, I am sure, are not at aU qualified to 
 solve. Of this we are both sure, that under the guidance 
 of Providence we have formed these connexions ; that we 
 should have hurt the Christian cause, rather than have 
 served it, by a prudish abstinence from them ; and that
 
 134 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 St. Paul himself, conducted to them as we have been, would 
 have found it expedient to have done as we have done. It 
 is always impossible to conjecture, to much purpose, from 
 the beginnings of a providence, in what it will terminate. 
 If we have neither received nor communicated any spi- 
 ritual good at present, while conversant with our new ac- 
 quaintance, at least no harm has befallen on either side ; 
 and it were too hazardous an assertion even for our cen- 
 sorious neighbours to make, that, because the cause of the 
 Gospel does not appear to have been served at present, 
 therefore it never can be in any future intercourse that we 
 may have with them. In the meantime I speak a strict 
 truth, and as in the sight of God, when I say that we are 
 neither of us at all more addicted to gadding than hereto- 
 fore. We both naturaUy love seclusion from company, and 
 never go into it without putting a force upon our disposi- 
 tion ; at the same time I wiU confess, and you will easily 
 conceive, that the melancholy incident to such close confine- 
 ment as we have so long endured, finds itself a Uttle re- 
 lieved by such amusement as a society so innocent affords. 
 You may look round the Christian world, and find few, I 
 believe, of our station who have so little iutercourse as we 
 with the world that is not Christian. 
 
 " We place all the uneasiness that you have felt for us 
 upon this subject, to the account of that cordial friendship 
 of which you have long given us proof. But you may be 
 assured that, notwithstanding all rumours to the contraiy, 
 we are exactly what we were when you saw us last. I, 
 miserable on account of God's departure from me, which I 
 believe to be final ; and she, seeking his return to me in 
 the path of duty, and by continual prayer. 
 
 " Yours, my dear friend, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 Lady Hesketh did not leave Olney till she had arranged 
 everything for her cousin's desired removal to Weston. 
 About the middle of November, 1786, all things were com- 
 pleted ; Lady Hesketh returned to town, and Cowper and 
 Mrs. Unwin finally quitted Olney as a place of abode.
 
 COWPER AT WESTON. 135 
 
 YII. 
 
 COWPER AT WESTON— TRANSLATION OF HOMER- 
 NEW FRIENDSHIPS. 
 
 A.D. 17S6— 1792. 
 
 From his tliii-ty-second year till his fifty-fourth, Cowper 
 had lived iu almost entire seclusion. Mrs. Unwin and Mr. 
 Newton constituted almost his whole circle of acquaintance. 
 When Mr. Newton left Olncy he introduced to the poet 
 Mr. Bull, a dissenting minister of Newport-Pagnell, who 
 thenceforward became a weekly visitant. A year or two 
 later, Lady Austen, like some brilliant meteoi", crossed the 
 poet's path. But, until Lady Hesketh's renewal of their 
 intimacy, and Cowper's removal to Weston, the poet and 
 his friend and guardian lived for each other ; and, beyond 
 an occasional letter to Mr. Newton or Mr. Unwin, had 
 scarcely any intercourse with human society. From 1785 
 or 1786, however, a great change is discernible. This was 
 chiefly owing to the growing fame of the author of The 
 Task. 
 
 Beside which, the fact, now noised abroad, that he was 
 engaged on a new translation of Homer, had a natural 
 tendency to bring him into larger intercourse with men of 
 letters. In one of his letters to Lady Hesketh, in 1785, he 
 thus introduces the subject : — 
 
 " Now, my dear, I am going to tell you a secret. It is 
 a great secret, that you must not whisper even to your cat. 
 No creature is at this moment apprised of it but Mrs. 
 Unwin and her son. 1 am making a new translation of 
 Homer, and am on the point of finishing the twenty-first 
 book of the Iliad. The reasons upon which I undertake 
 this herculean labour, and by which I justify an enterprise
 
 136 LIFE OF WnXIAM COWPER. 
 
 in wliich I seem so effectually anticipated by Pope — al- 
 though, in fact, he has not anticipated me at all — I may 
 possibly give you, if you wish for them, when I can find 
 nothing more interesting to say. 
 
 " It will be a large work, consisting, I should imagine, 
 of six volumes at least. The 1 2th of this month I shall 
 have spent a year upon it, and it A\dll cost me more than 
 another. I do not love the booksellers well enough to 
 make them a present of such a labour, but intend to pub- 
 lish by subscription. Your vote and interest, my dear 
 cousin, upon the occasion, if you please, but nothing more. 
 I will trouble you with some papers of proposals when the 
 time shall come, and am sure that you will circulate as 
 many for me as you can." 
 
 To Mr. Ne\vton he thus accounts for his adopting this 
 undertaking in preference to original composition : — 
 
 " Employment, and, with the pen, is, through habit, be- 
 come essential to my well-being ; and to produce always 
 original poems, especially of considerable length, is not 
 so easy. For some weeks after I had finished The Task, 
 and sent away the last sheet corrected, I was, through 
 necessity, idle, and suffered not a little in my spirits for 
 being so. One day, being in such distress of mind as was 
 hardly supportable, I took up the Iliad; and merely to 
 divert attention, and with no more preconception of what 
 I was then entering upon, than I have at this moment of 
 what I shall be doing this day twenty years hence, trans- 
 lated the twelve first lines of it. The same necessity 
 pressing me again, I had recourse to the same expedient, 
 and translated more. Every day bringing its occasion for 
 employment with it, every day, consequently, added some- 
 thing to the work ; till at last I began to reflect thus : — 
 The Iliad and the Odyssey together consist of about forty 
 thousand verses. To translate these forty thousand verses 
 will furnish me with occupation for a considerable time. 
 I have already made some progress, and I find it a most 
 agreeable amusement. Homer, in point of purity, is a most 
 blameless writer ; and, though he was not an enlightened 
 man, has interspersed many great and valuable truths 
 throughout both his poems. In short, he is in all respects
 
 TRANSLATION OF HOMER. 137 
 
 a most venerable old gentleman, by an acquaintance with 
 wliom no man can disgrace himself. The literati are all 
 agreed to a man, that although Pope has given us two pretty 
 poems under Homer's titles, there is not to be found in 
 them the least portion of Homer's spirit, nor the least 
 resemblance of his manner. I will try, therefore, whether 
 I cannot copy him somewhat more happily myself. I 
 have at least the advantage of Pope's faults and failings ; 
 which, like so many buoys upon a dangerous coast, will 
 serve me to steer by, and will make my chance for success 
 more probable. These, and many other considerations, 
 but especially a mind that abhorred a vacuum as its chief 
 bane, impelled me so effectually to the work, that ere long 
 I mean to publish proposals for a subscription to it, having 
 advanced so far as to be warranted in doing so." 
 
 As this undertaking gradually transpired, various men 
 of taste sought him out ; Bagot, Hayley, Rose, Johnson, 
 and many others, came around him ; and it was, in many 
 respects, a kind providence that they did. He soon needed 
 their help, and they eagerly gave it. Few men have owed 
 more to private fi-iendship than William Cowper. 
 
 Mr. Bagot, a brother of Lord Bagot, was an old West- 
 minster school-fellow of Cow|jer's. 
 
 " It happened," says the poet, " that soon after the 
 publication of my first volume, he came into this country 
 on a visit to his brother. Having read my book, and liking 
 it, he took that opportunity to renew his acquaintance 
 with me. I felt much affection for him ; and the more, 
 because it was plain that, after so long a time, he still re- 
 tained his for me. He is now at his brother s : twice he 
 visited me in the course of last week, and this morning 
 he brought Mrs. Bagot with him. He is a good and amiable 
 man, and she is a most agreeable woman. At this second 
 visit I made him acquainted with my translation of 
 Homer ; he was highly pleased to find me so occupied, and 
 with all that glow of friendship that would make it criminal 
 in me to doubt his sincerity for a moment, insisted upon 
 being employed in promoting the subscription, and en- 
 gaged himself and all his connexions, which are exten- 
 sive, and many of them of high rank, in my service. 
 His chariot put up at an inu in the town while he was here?
 
 138 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 and I rather wondered that at his departure he chose to 
 walk to his chariot, and not to be taken up at the door. 
 But when he had been gone about a quarter of an hour his 
 servant came with a letter, which his master had written 
 at the inn, and which, he said, required no answer. I 
 opened it, and found as follows : — • 
 
 * My good Friend, — You will oblige me liy accepting this 
 early subscription to your Homer, even before you have 
 fixed your plan and price ; which, when you have done, if 
 you will send me a parcel of your subscrijjtion-papers, T 
 will endeavour to circulate them among my friends and 
 acquaintance as far as I can. Health and happiness attend 
 you. 
 
 ' Yours ever, 
 
 ' Walter Bagot.' " 
 
 Tliis letter contained a draft for twenty pounds. A 
 friendship which had slept for more than thirty years was 
 thus most earnestly revived. 
 
 Cowper was now at Weston. On the 17th Nov. 1786, 
 he announced his removal to Mr. Newton : — 
 
 " When God speaks to a chaos," said he, " it becomes a 
 scene of order and harmony in a moment ; but when his 
 creatures have thrown one house into confusion by leaving 
 it, and another by tumbling themselves and their goods 
 into it, not less than many days' labour and contrivance is 
 necessary to give them their proper places. And it belongs 
 to furniture of all kinds, however convenient it may be in 
 its place, to be a nuisance out of it. We find ourselves 
 here in a comfoi'table dwelling. Such it is in itself ; and 
 my cousin, who has spared no expense in dressing it up 
 for us, has made it a genteel one. Such, at least, it will be 
 when its contents are a little harmonised. She left us on 
 Tuesday, and on Wednesday, in the evening, Mrs. Unwin 
 and I took possession. I could not help giving a last look 
 to my old prison and its precincts ; and though I cannot 
 easily account for it, having beeii miserable there so many 
 years, felt something like a heart-ache when I took my 
 last leave of a scene, that certainly in itself had nothing 
 to engage affection. But I recollected that I had once 
 been happy there, and could not. without tears in uiy
 
 TRANSLATION OF HOMKR. 139 
 
 eyes, bid adieu to a place in which God had so often 
 found me. The human mind is a groat mystery ; mine, at 
 least, appeared to me to be such upon this occasion. I 
 found that I not only had a tenderness for that ruinous 
 abode, because it had once known me happy in the pre- 
 sence of God ; but that oven the distress I had suffered for 
 so long a time, on account of his absence, had endeared 
 it to me as much. I was weary of every object, had long 
 wished for a change, yet could not take leave without a 
 pang at parting. What consequences are to attend our 
 removal, God only knows. I know well that it is not in 
 situation to effect a cure of melancholy like mine. The 
 change, howevei', has been entirely a jirovidential one ; for 
 much as I wished it, I never littered that wish, except to 
 Mrs. Unwin. When I learned that the house was to be 
 let, and had seen it, I had a strong desire that Lady 
 Hesketh should take it for herself, if she should happen to 
 like the country. That desire, indeed, is not exactly ful- 
 filled, yet, upon the whole, is exceeded. We are the 
 tenants ; but she assures us that we shall often have her 
 for a guest ; and here is room enough for us all. You, I 
 hope, my dear friend, and Mrs. Newton, will want no 
 assurances to convince you that you will always be re- 
 ceived here with the sincerest welcome. More welcome 
 than you have been, you cannot be ; but better accom- 
 modated you may and will be." 
 
 But "clouds return after the rain." A new and real 
 affliction awaited those who were rejoicing in their im- 
 proved circumstances. Just at this moment, Cowper's 
 friend, Mrs. Unwin's son, now a clergyman, of talents, 
 piety, and highly-valued judgment, was seized, in the 
 prime of life, with typhus-fever, and died. 
 
 To his cousin. Lady Hesketh, Cowper thus writes on 
 this painful subject : — 
 
 " The Lculfje, Bee. 4, 1786. 
 
 " I sent you, my dear, a melancholy letter, and I do not 
 know that I shall now send you one very unlike it. Not 
 that anything occurs in consequence of our late loss more 
 afflictive than was to be expected, but the mind does not
 
 140 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 perfectly recover its tone after a shock like that which has 
 been felt so lately. This I observe, that, though my expe 
 rience has long since taught me that this world is a world 
 of shadows, and that it is the more prudent as well as the 
 more Christian course to possess the comforts that we find 
 in it as if we possessed them not, it is no easy matter to 
 reduce this doctrine into practice. We forget that that 
 God who gave them may, when he pleases, take them 
 away ; and that, perhaps, it may please him to take them 
 at a time when we least expect, or are least disposed to 
 part from them. Thus it has happened in the present 
 case. There never was a moment in Unwin's Kfe when 
 there seemed to be more urgent want of him than the 
 moment in which he died. He had attained to an age 
 when, if they are at any time useful, men become more 
 useful to their famihcs, their friends, and the world. His 
 parish began to feel and to be sensible of the advantages 
 of his ministry. Tlie clergy around him were many of 
 them awed by his example. His children were thriving 
 under his own tuition and management, and his eldest boy 
 is hkely to feel his loss severely, being by his years, in 
 some respect, qualified to understand the value of such 
 a parent ; by his literary proficiency too clever for a 
 schoolboy, and too young, at the same time, for the uni- 
 versity. The removal of a man in the prime of life,— of 
 such a character and with such connexious,— seems to 
 make a void in society that can never be filled. God 
 seemed to have made him just what he was, that he might 
 be a blessing to others ; and when the influence of his 
 character and abilities began to be felt, removed him. 
 These are mysteries, my dear, that we cannot contemplate 
 without astonishment, but which will, nevertheless, be 
 explained hereafter, and must, in the meantime, be revered 
 in silence. It is well for his mother that she has spent her 
 life in the practice of an habitual acquiescence in the dis- 
 pensations of Providence, else I know that this stroke 
 would have been heavier, after all that she has suffered 
 upon another account, than she could have borne. She 
 derives, as she well may, great consolation from the thought 
 that he lived the life and died the death of a Christian.
 
 TRANSLATION OF HOMER. 141 
 
 The consequence is, if possible, more unavoidable than the 
 most mathematical conclusion, that therefore he is happy. 
 So farewell, my friend Unwin ! the first man for whom I 
 conceived a friendship after my removal from St. Alban's, 
 and for whom I cannot but still continue to feel a fi-ieud- 
 shiix thougli I shall see thee with these eyes no more ! 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 And to Mr. Newton lie thus touches on the same sub- 
 
 I'ect : — 
 
 « Westou, Dec. 10, 1786. 
 
 " My dear Friend, — The death of one whom I valued as 
 I did Mr. Unwin is a subject on which I could say much, 
 and with much feeling. But, habituated as my mind has 
 been these many years to melancholy themes, I am glad to 
 excuse myself the contemplation of them as much as pos- 
 sible. I will only observe, that the death of so young a 
 man, whom I so lately saw in good health, and whose life 
 was so desirable on every account, ,has something in it 
 peculiarly distressing. I cannot think of the widow and 
 the children that he has left, without an heart-ache that I 
 remember not to have felt before. We may well say, that 
 the ways of God are mysterious : in truth they are so, and 
 to a degree that only such events can give us any concep- 
 tion of. Mrs. Unwin begs me to give her love to you, with 
 thanks for your kind letter. Hers has been so much a 
 life of affliction, that whatever occurs to her in that shape 
 has not, at least, the terrors of novelty to embitter it. She 
 is supported under this, as she has been under a thousand 
 others, with a submission of which I never saw her de- 
 prived for a moment." 
 
 The year 1787 was lamentably divided between his 
 purposed translation of Homer, and a nen'ous fever, which, 
 for seven or eight months, hung about him. To Mr. New- 
 ton he thus apologises for taking up a task which many 
 of his friends thought beneath the scope of a Christian 
 
 poet ; — 
 
 " Westou, Jan. 18, 1787. 
 
 " My dear Friend, — It gave me pleasure, such as it 
 
 was, to learn by a letter from Mr. H. Thornton, that the
 
 142 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 inscription for the tomb of poor Unwin has been approved 
 of. The dead have nothing to do with human praises, but, 
 if they died in the Lord, they have abundant praises to 
 render to him, which is far better. The dead, whatever 
 they leave behind them, have nothing to regret. Good 
 Christians are the only creatures in the world that are 
 truly good, and them they will see again, and see them 
 improved ; therefore them they regret not. Regret is for 
 the living : what we get we soon lose, and what we lose we 
 regret. The most obvious consolation in this case seems 
 to be, that we who regret others shall quickly become 
 objects of regret ourselves ; for mankind are continually 
 passing oif in a rapid succession. 
 
 " I have many kind friends who, like yourself, vnsh. that 
 instead of turning my endeavours to a translation of Homer, 
 I had proceeded in the way of original poetry. But I can 
 truly say, that it was ordered otherwise, not by me, but by 
 the Providence that governs aU my thoughts, and directs 
 my intentions as He pleases. It may seem strange, but it 
 is true, that, after having written a volume, in general with 
 great ease to myself, I found it impossible to write another 
 page. The mind of man is not a fountain, but a cistern ; 
 and mine, God knows, a broken one. li is my creed, that 
 the intellect depends as much, both for the energy and the 
 rntdtitude of its exertions, upon the operations of God's 
 agency upon it, as the heart, for the exercise of its graces, 
 upon the influence of the Holy Spirit. According to this 
 persuasion, I may very reasonably affirm, that it was not 
 God's pleasure that I should pi-oceed in the same track, 
 because he did not enable me to do it. A whole year I 
 waited, and waited in circumstances of mind that made a 
 state of non-employment peculiarly irksome to me. I 
 longed for the pen, as the only remedy, but I could find no 
 subject : extreme distress of spirit at last drove me, as, if I 
 mistake not, I told you some time since, to lay Homer 
 before me, and translate for amusement. Why it pleased 
 God that I should be hunted into such a business, of such 
 enormous length and labour, by miseries for which He did 
 not see good to aftbrd me any other remedy, I know not. 
 But so it was : and jejune as the consolation may be, and
 
 HIS FAILING HEALTH. 143 
 
 unsuited to the exigencies of a mind that once was spiri- 
 tual, yet a thousand times have I been glad of it ; for a 
 thousand times it has served at least to divert my attention, 
 in some degree, from such terrible tempests as I believe 
 have seldom been permitted to beat upon a human mind. 
 Let my friends, therefore, who wish me some little measure 
 of tranquillity in the performance of the most turbulent 
 voyage that ever Christian mariner made, be contented, 
 that, having Homer's mountains and forests to windward, 
 I escape, under their shelter, from the force of many a 
 gust that would almost overset me ; especially when they 
 consider that, not by choice, but by necessity, I make them 
 my refuge. As to fame, and honour, and glory, that may 
 be acquired by poetical feats of any sort : God knows, that 
 if I could lay me down in my grave with hope at my side, 
 or sit with hope at my side in a dungeon all the residue 
 of my days, I would cheerfully wave them all. For the 
 little fame that I have already earned has never saved 
 me from one distressing night, or from one despairing day, 
 since I first acquired it. For what I am reserved, or to 
 what, is a mystery : I would fain hope, not merely that 
 I may amuse others, or only to be a translator of Homer. 
 
 " Sally Perry's case has given us much concern. I have 
 no doubt that it is distemper. But distresses of mind, 
 that are occasioned by distemper, are the most difficult of 
 all to deal with. They refuse all consolation ; they will 
 hear no reason. God only, by his own immediate im- 
 pressions, can remove them : as, after an experience of 
 thirteen years' misery, I can abundantly testify. 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 To Lady Hesketh he, at this period, describes the faiUng 
 state of his health : — 
 
 " The Lo(l;;e, Jon. 18, 1787. 
 
 " I have been so much indisposed with the fever that I 
 told you had seized me, my nights during the whole week 
 may be said to have been almost sleepless. The conse- 
 (pience has been, that, except the translation of about 
 thirty lines at the conclusion of the thirteenth book, I have
 
 1 44 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 been forced to abandon Homer entirely. Tliis was a sen- 
 sible mortification to me, as you may suppose, and felt 
 the more, because, my spirits of course failing with my 
 strength, I seemed to have peculiar need of my old amuse- 
 ment. It seemed hard, therefore, to be forced to resign 
 it just when I wanted it most. But Homer's battles can- 
 not be fought by a man who does not sleep well, and who 
 has not some httle degree of animation in the daytime. 
 Last night, however, quite contrary to my expectations, 
 the fever left me entirely, and I slept quietly, soundly, and 
 long. If it please God that it return not, I shall soon find 
 myself in a condition to proceed. I walk constantly, that 
 is to say, Mrs. Unwin and I together ; for at these times I 
 keep her continually employed, and never suffer her to be 
 absent from me many minutes. She gives me aU her time 
 and all her attention, and forgets that there is another 
 object in the world. 
 
 " ]\lrs. Carter thinks on the subject of dreams as every- 
 body else does, that is to say, according to her own ex- 
 perience. She has had no extraordinary ones, and therefore 
 accounts them only the ordinary operations of the fancy. 
 ]Mine are of a texture that wall not suffer me to ascribe 
 them to so inadequate a cause, or to any cause but the 
 operation of an exterior agency. I have a mind, my dear, 
 (and to you I will venture to boast of it,) as free from 
 superstition as any man living, neither do I give heed to 
 dreams in general as predictive, though particular dreams 
 I believe to be so. Some very sensible persons, and, I sup- 
 pose, Mrs. Carter among them, will acknowledge that in 
 old times God spoke by dreams, but affirm with much 
 boldness that he has since ceased to do so. If you ask 
 them Why, they answer, Because he has now revealed his 
 will in the Scripture, and there is no longer any need that 
 he should instruct or admonish us by dreams. I grant 
 that with respect to doctrines and precepts he has left us 
 in want of nothing, but has he thereby precluded himself 
 jn any of the operations of his providence ? Surely not. 
 It is perfectly a different consideration ; and the same 
 need that there ever was of his interference in this way 
 there is still, and ever must be, while man continues bUnd
 
 KEW FRIENDSHIPS. 145 
 
 and fallible, aufl a creature beset with dangers, which he 
 can neither foresee nor obviate. His operations, however, 
 of this kind are, I allow, very rare ; and as to the gene- 
 rality of dreams, they are made of such stuff, and are in 
 themselves so insignificant, that, though I believe them all 
 to be the manufacture of others, not our own, I account it 
 not a farthing matter who manufactures them. So much 
 for dreams ! 
 
 " My fever is not yet gone, but sometimes seems to 
 leave me. It is altogether of the nervous kind, and at- 
 tended now and then with much dejection. 
 
 " A young gentleman called here yesterday who came 
 six miles out of his way to see me. He was on a journey 
 to London from Glasgow, having just left the University 
 there. He came, I suppose, partly to satisfy his own 
 curiosity, but chiefly, as it seemed, to bring me the thanks 
 of some of the Scotch professors for my two volumes. His 
 name is Rose, an Englishman. Your spirits being good, 
 you will derive more pleasure from this incident than I 
 can at present, therefore I send it. 
 
 " Adieu, very aflfectionatelv, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 Towards the close of this year he acquaints Mr. Newton 
 with the cause of a long-continued silence : — 
 
 " Oct. 1787. 
 
 " My dear Friend, — My indisposition could not be of 
 a worse kind. Had I been afflicted with a fever, or con- 
 fined by a broken bone, neither of these cases would have 
 made it impossible that we should meet. I am truly sorry 
 that the impediment was insurmountable while it lasted, 
 for such, in fact, it was. The sight of any face, except 
 Mrs. Unwin's, was to me an insupportable grievance ; and 
 when it has happened that, by forcing himself into my 
 hiding-place, some friend has found me out, he has had no 
 gi'eat cause to exult in his success, as Mr. Bull can tell you. 
 From this dreadful condition of mind I emerged suddenly ; 
 so suddenly, that Mrs. Unwin, having no notice of such a 
 change herself, could give none to anybody ; and when it 
 obtained, how long it might last, or how far it was to be 
 
 L
 
 146 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 depended on, was a matter of the greatest uncertainty. It 
 affects me on tlie recollection with the more concern, 
 because I learn from your last, that I have not only lost an 
 interview with you myself, but have stood in the way of 
 visits that you would have gladly paid to others, and who 
 would have been happy to have seen you. You should 
 have forgotten (but you are not good at forgetting your 
 friends) that such a creatm^e as myself existed." 
 
 It was at this period that several earnest and even 
 enthusiastic friends were given to Cowper. Just before 
 his illness he had received a visit from Mr. Samuel Rose, a 
 youth of twenty, the son of Dr. William Rose, who kept a 
 school at Chiswick, and was connected with the Monthly 
 Review. The circumstance is noticed in the letter to Lady 
 Hesketh, just given. As soon as he began to rise out of 
 his state of depression, he writes to JMr. Rose as follows : — 
 
 " Weston, Aug. 27, 1797. 
 "Dear Sir, — I have not yet taken up the pen again, 
 except to write to you. The little taste that I have had of 
 yoiu' company, and your kindness in finding me out, make 
 me wish that we were nearer neighbours, and that there 
 were not so great a disparity in our years ; that is to say, 
 not that you were older, but that I were younger. Could 
 we have met in early hfe, I flatter myself that we might 
 have been more intimate than now we are likely to be. 
 But you shall not find me slow to cultivate such a measure 
 of your regard, as your friends of your own age can spare 
 me. When your route shall lie through this country, I 
 shall hope that the same kindness which has prompted 
 you twice to call on me, will prompt you again ; and I 
 shall be happy if, on a future occasion, I may be able to 
 give you a more cheerful reception than can be expected 
 from an invalid. My health and spirits are considera.bly 
 improved, and I once more associate with my neighbours. 
 My head, however, has been the worst part of me, and still 
 continues so, — is subject to giddiness and pain, maladies 
 very unfavourable to poetical employment ; but a prepa- 
 ration of the bark, which I take regularly, has so far been
 
 HIS FEELINGS AND CONDITION. 147 
 
 of service to me in those respects, as to encourage in me 
 a hope that, by perseverance in the use of it, I may jjos- 
 sibly find myself qualified to resume the translation of 
 Homer. 
 
 " When I cannot walk, I read, — and read, perhaps, more 
 than is good for me. But I cannot be idle. The only 
 mercy that I show myself in this respect is, that I read 
 nothing that requires much closeness of appUcation. I 
 lately finished the 2>erusal of a book, which in former years 
 I have more than once attacked, but never till- now con- 
 quered ; some otlier book always interfered befoi'e I could 
 finish it. The work I mean is Barclay's Argents ; and if 
 ever you allow yourself to read for mere amusement, I can 
 recommend it to you (provided you have not already pe- 
 rused it), as the most amusing romance that ever was 
 written. It is the only one, indeed, of an old dato that I 
 ever had the patience to go through with. It is inter- 
 esting in a high degree ; richer in incident than can be 
 imagined, full of surprises, which the reader never fore- 
 stalls, and yet free from all entanglement and confusion. 
 The style, too, appears to me to be such as would not dis- 
 honour Tacitus himself. 
 
 "Poor Burns loses much of his deserved^ praise in this 
 country, through our ignorance of his language. I despair 
 of meeting with any Englishman who will take the pains 
 that I have taken to understand him. His candle is bright, 
 liut shut up in a dark lantern. I lent him to a very sen- 
 sible neighbour of mine, but his uncouth dialect spoiled 
 all ; and before he had half read him through, he was 
 quite ram-feezled, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 A month later a letter to Mr. Newton gives us, as usual, 
 the wmbre view of his feelings and condition : — 
 
 "Weston Underwood, Oct. 2, 1787. 
 "My dear Friend, — After a long but necessary inter- 
 ruption of our correspondence, I return to it again, in one 
 respect, at least, better qualified for it than before ; I mean, 
 by a behef of your identity, which for thirteen years I did 
 not believe. The acquisition of this light — if light it may
 
 148 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 be called which leaves me as much in the dark as ever on 
 the most interesting subjects — releases me, however, from 
 the disagreeable suspicion that I am addressing myself to 
 you as the friend whom I loved and valued so highly in 
 my better days, while, in fact, you are not that friend, but 
 a sti'anger. I can now write to vou without seeming to 
 act a part, and without having any need to charge myself 
 with dissimulation ; a charge from which, in that state of 
 mind, and under such an uncomfortable persuasion, I knew 
 not how to exculpate myself, and which, as you will easily 
 conceive, not seldom made my correspondence with you a 
 burthen. Still, indeed, it wants, and is hkely to want, that 
 best ingredient which can alone make it truly pleasant 
 either to myself or you — that spirituahty which once en- 
 livened all our intercourse. You will tell me, no doubt, 
 that the knowledge I have gained is an earnest of more 
 and more valuable information, and that the dispersion of 
 the clouds in part, promises, in due time, their complete 
 dispersion. I should be happy to believe it ; but the 
 power to do so is at present far from me. Never was the 
 mind of man benighted to the degree that mine has been. 
 The storms that have assailed me would have overset the 
 faith of every man that ever had any ; and the very remem- 
 brance of them, even after they have been long passed by, 
 makes hope impossible. 
 
 " Mrs. Unwin, whose poor bark is still held together, 
 though shattered by being tossed and agitated so long at 
 the side of mine, does not forget yours and Mrs. Newton's 
 kindness on this last occasion. Mrs. Newton's oiFer to 
 come to her assistance, and your readiness to have ren- 
 dered us the same service, could you have hoped for any 
 salutary efiect of your presence, neither Mrs. Unwin nor 
 myself undervalue, nor shall presently forget. But you 
 judged right when you supposed that even your comjjany 
 would have been no relief to me ; the company of my 
 father or my brother, could they have returned from the 
 dead to visit me, would have been none to me. 
 
 "We are busied in preparing for tlie reception of Lady 
 Hesketh, whom we e.vpect here shortly. We have beds to 
 put up, and furniture for beds to make ; workmen, and
 
 HIS RECOVERY. 149 
 
 scouring, and Imstle. Mrs. Unvvin's time has, of course, 
 been lately occupied to a degree that made writing to 
 her impracticable ; and she excused herself the rather, 
 knowing my intentions to take her office. It does not, 
 however, suit me to write much at a time. This last tem- 
 pest has left my nerves in a worse condition than it found 
 them ; my head especially, though better informed, is 
 more infirm than ever. I will, therefore, only add our 
 joint love to yourself and Mrs. Newton, and that I am, my 
 dear friend, 
 
 " Your affectionate, 
 
 " Wm. Cowper." 
 
 Six weeks later he writes to Lady Hesketh, in a far 
 gayer tone ; — 
 
 "r/ie Lodge, Nov. 27, 1787. 
 
 "It is the part of wisdom, my dearest cousin, to sit 
 down contented under the demands of necessity, because 
 they are such. I am sensible that you cannot, in my uncle's 
 present infirm state, and of which it is not possible to 
 expect any considerable amendment, indulge either us, or 
 yourself, with a journey to Weston. Yourself, I say, both 
 because I know it will give you pleasure to see Causidice 
 mi once more, especially in the comfortable abode where 
 you have placed him, and bedause, after so long an impri- 
 sonment in London, you who love the country, and have a 
 taste for it, would, of course, be glad to return to it. For 
 my own part, to me it is ever new ; and though I have 
 now been an inhabitant of this village a twelvemonth, and 
 have during the half of that time been at liberty to ex- 
 patiate and to make discoveries, I am daily finding out 
 fresh scenes and walks, which you would never be satisfied 
 with enjoying ; some of them are unapproachable by you, 
 either on foot or in your carriage. Had you twenty toes 
 (whereas I suppose you have but ten) you could not reach 
 them ; and coach-wheels have never been seen there since 
 the flood. Before it, indeed (as Burnet says that the earth 
 was then perfectly free from all inequalities in its surface), 
 they might have been seen there every day. AVe have 
 other walks, both upon hill-tops and in valleys beneath,
 
 150 LIFE OF WILLIAM CO WPER. 
 
 some of wliicli, by the help of your carriage, and many of 
 them without its help, would be always at your command. 
 
 " On Monday morning last Sam brought me word that 
 there was a man in the kitchen who desired to speak with 
 me. I ordered him in. A plain, decent, elderly figure, 
 made its appearance, and, being desired to sit, spoke as 
 follows : ' Sir, I am clerk of the parish of All-Saints, in 
 Northampton ; brother of Mr. Cox, the upholsterer. It is 
 customary for the person in my office to annex to a bill of 
 mortaUty, which he publishes at Christmas, a copy of 
 verses. You would do me a great favour, sir, if you would 
 furnish me with one.' To this I replied, — ' Mr. Cox, you 
 have several men of genius in your town, why have you 
 not applied to some of them 1 There is a namesake of 
 yours, in particular — Cox, the statuary — who, everybody 
 knows, is a first-rate maker of verses. He surely is the 
 man, of all the world, for your purpose.' ' Alas, sir, I 
 have heretofore borrowed help from him ; but he is a 
 gentlenmn of so much reading, that the people of our town 
 cannot understand him.' I confess to you, my dear, I felt 
 all the force of the compliment implied in this speech, and 
 was almost ready to answer, 'Perhaps, my good friend, 
 they may find me unintelligible, too, for the same reason.' 
 But on asking him whether he had walked over to Weston 
 on purpose to imjjlore the assistance of my muse, and on 
 his replying in the affirmative, I felt my mortified vanity 
 a little consoled, and, pitying the poor man's distress, which 
 appeared to be considerable, promised to supply him. 
 The waggon has, accordinglj', gone this day to Northamp- 
 ton, loaded, in part, with my eff"usions in the mortuary 
 style. A fig for poets who write epitaphs upon indi\'iduals ! 
 I have written one that serves tico hundred persons. 
 
 " A few (lays since I received a second very obliging 
 letter from Mr. ]\Iackenzie. He tells me that his own 
 papers — which are by far, he is sorry to say it, the most 
 numerous — are marked V. I. Z. Accordingly, my dear, I 
 am happy to find that I am engaged in a correspondence 
 with Mr. Viz, a gentleman for whom I have always enter- 
 tained the profoundcst veneration. But the serious fact is, 
 that the papers distinguished by those signatures have
 
 ACCIDENT TO MRS. UXAVIN. 151 
 
 ever pleased me most, and struck me as the work of a 
 sensible man, who knows' the world well, and has more of 
 Addison's delicate humour than anybody. 
 
 " A poor man begged food at the hall lately. The cook 
 gave him some vermicelli soup. He ladled it about some 
 time with the spoon, and then returned it to her, saying, 
 — ' I am a poor man, it is true, and I am very hungry, but 
 yet I cannot eat broth with maggots in it.' Once more, 
 my dear, a thousand thanks for your box full of good 
 things, useful things, and beautiful things. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 A month later an event occurred, which, but for the 
 presei-ving mercy of God, would have taken from Cowper 
 his dearest friend, and would, unquestionably, have short- 
 ened his own existence. He describes the circumstance to 
 Lady Hesketh as follows : — 
 
 " The Lodge, Dec. 24, 1787. 
 
 " This morning had very near been a tragical one to me, 
 beyond all that have ever risen upon me. Mrs. Unwin 
 rose as usual at seven o'clock ; at eight she came to me, 
 and showed me her bed-gown with a great piece burnt out 
 of it. Having lighted her fire, which she alwa^ lights 
 herself, she placed the candle upon the hearth. In a few 
 moments it occurred to her that, if it continued there, it 
 might, possibly, set fire to her clothes, therefore she put 
 it out. But, in fact, though she had not the least sus- 
 picion of it, her clothes were on fire at that very time. 
 She found herself uncommonly annoyed by smoke, such as 
 brought the water into her eyes ; supposing that some of 
 the billets might lie too forward, she disposed them differ- 
 ently ; but finding the smoke increase, and gi-ow more 
 troublesome (for by this time the room was filled with it), 
 she cast her eye downward, and perceived not only her 
 bed-gown, but her petticoat on fire. She had the presence of 
 mind to gather them in her hand, and plunge them imme- 
 diately into the basin, by which means the general con- 
 flagration of her person, which must have probably ensued 
 in a few moments, was effectually i^revented. Thus was
 
 152 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 that which I have often heard from the pulpit, and have 
 often had occasion myself to observe, most clearly illus- 
 trated, — that, secure as we may sometimes seem to our- 
 selves, we are, in reality, never so safe as to have no need 
 of a superintending Providence. Danger can never be at 
 a distance from creatures who dwell in houses of clay. 
 Therefore take care of thyself, gentle Yahoo ! and may a 
 more vigilant than thou care for thee." 
 
 To a friend in Ireland, Mr. Rowley, he gives, in the 
 following February, the account of his progress with 
 Homer : — 
 
 " So much for my situation. Now, what am I doing ? 
 Translating Homer. Is not this, you will say, actum 
 agere ? But if you think again, you will find that it is 
 not. At least, for my own part, I can assure you that I 
 have never seen him translated yet, except in the Dog- 
 Latin, which you remember to have apphed to for illumi- 
 nation when you were a school-boy. We are strange 
 creatures, my little friend ; everything that we do is in 
 reality important, though half that we do seems to be 
 push-pin. Not much less than thirty years since, Alston 
 and I read Homer through together. We compared Pope 
 with his original all the way. The result was a discovery, 
 that there is hardly the thing in the world of which Pope 
 was so entirely destitute, as a taste for Homer. After the 
 publication of my last volume, I found myself without 
 employment. Employment is essential to me ; I have 
 neither health nor spirits without it. After some time, 
 the recollection of what had passed between Alston and 
 myself in the course of this business struck me forcibly ; 
 I remembered how we had been disgusted ; how often we 
 had sought the simplicity and majesty of Homer in his 
 English representative, and had found instead of them, 
 puerile conceits, extravagant metaphors, and the tinsel of 
 modern embellishment in every possible position. Neither 
 did I forget how often we were on the point of burning 
 Pope, as we burnt Bertram Montfitchet in your chambers, 
 I laid a Homer before me. I translated a few lines into 
 blank verse ; the day following, a few more ; and proceed-
 
 DEATH OF MR. ASHLEY COWPER. 153 
 
 ing thus till I had finished the first book, was convinced 
 that I could render an acceptable service to the literary 
 woi'ld, should I be favoured with health to enable me to 
 translate the whole. The Iliad I translated without in- 
 terruption. That done, T published Proposals for a sub- 
 scription, and can boast of a very good one. Soon after, I 
 was taken ill, and was hindered nearly a twelvemonth. But 
 I have now resumed the work, and have proceeded in it as 
 far as the end of the fifteenth Ihad, altering and aiucnding 
 my first copy with all the diligence I am master of. For 
 this I will be answerable, that it shall be found a close 
 translation : in that respect, as faithful as our language, 
 not always a match for the Greek, will give me leave to 
 make it. For its other qualifications, I must refer myself 
 to the judgment of the public, when it shall appear. Thus 
 I have fulfilled my promise, and have told you not only 
 how I am at present occupied, but how I am likely to be 
 for some time to come. The Odyssey I have not yet touched, 
 I need not, T am confident, use any extraordinary arts of 
 persuasion to secure to myself your influence, as far as it 
 extends. If you mention that there is such a work on the 
 anvil in this country, in yours, perhaps, you will meet 
 somebody now and then not disinclined to favour it. I 
 would order you a parcel of printed proposals, if I knew 
 how to send it. But they are not indispensably necessary. 
 The terms are, two large volumes, quarto, royal paper, 
 three guineas ; common, two." 
 
 The year 1788 removed by death IVIr. Ashley Cowper, 
 Lady Hesketh's father, at the age of eighty-six. His 
 gradual decline had detained Lady H. many months from 
 a purposed visit to Weston. But in the autumn she 
 arrived. Previously Mr. and Mrs. Newton had paid Cowper 
 a visit. Cowper alludes to this visit, and to his feelings 
 and state of mind, in the following language, in his next 
 letter : — 
 
 " I found," said he, " those comforts in your visit which 
 have formerly sweetened all our interviews, in part re- 
 stored. I knew you ; knew you for the same shepherd 
 who was sent to lead me out of the wilderness into the 
 pasture where the chief Shepherd feeds his flock, and felt
 
 154 LITE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 my sentiments of affectionate friendship for you the same 
 as ever. But one thing was still wanting, and that thing 
 the crown of aU. I shall find it in God's time, if it be not 
 lost for ever. When I say this, I say it trembling ; for at 
 what time soever comfort shall come, it will not come with- 
 out its attendant evil ; and whatever good thing may occur 
 in the interval, I have sad forebodings of the event, having 
 learned by experience that I was born to be persecuted with 
 jjeculiar fury, and assuredly believing that, such as my lot 
 has been, it will be to the end. This belief is connected in 
 my mind with an observation I have often made, and is 
 perhaps founded, in great part, upon it : that there is a 
 certain style of dispensations maintained by Pro'vadence in 
 the dealings of God with every man, which, however the in- 
 cidents of his life may vary, and though he may be thrown 
 into many different situations, is never exchanged for an- 
 other. The style of dispensation, peculiar to myself, has 
 hitherto been that of sudden, violent, unlooked-for change. 
 When I have thought myself falling into the abyss, I have 
 been caught up again ; when I have thought myself on the 
 threshold of a happy eternity, I have been thrust down to 
 hell. The I'ough and the smooth of such a lot, taken to- 
 gether, should perhaps have taught me never to despair ; 
 but, through an unhappy propensity in my nature to fore- 
 bode the worst, they have, on the contrary, operated as an 
 admonition to me never to hope. A firm persuasion that 
 I can never durably enjoj' a comfortable state of mind, but 
 must be depressed in proportion as I have been elevated, 
 withers my joys in the bud, and, in a manner, entombs them 
 before they are born : for I have no expectation but of sad 
 vicissitude, and ever believe that the last shock of aU will 
 be fatal." 
 
 But though those were his feelings when driven to 
 speak of himself, a visitor, writing of what he found at 
 Weston Underwood, presents a less dreary view. Mr. 
 Rose paid Cowper another visit in the autumn of 1788, 
 which he thus describes : — 
 
 " I came here on Thursday ; and here I found Lady 
 Hesketh, a very agreeable, good-tempered, sensible woman, 
 polite without ceremony, and sufficiently well-bred to
 
 NEW FRIENDSHIPS. 155 
 
 make others bappy in her company. I here feel no re- 
 straint, and none is wished to be inspired. The ' noiseless 
 tenor' of our lives would much please and gi-atify you. An 
 account of one day will furnish you with a tolerably accu- 
 rate idea of the manner in which aU our time is passed. 
 We rise at whatever hour we choose ; breakfast at half 
 after nine, take about an hour to satisfy the sentiment, not the 
 appetite, — for we talk — ' good Heavens, how we talk ! ' and 
 enjoy ourselves most wonderfully. Then we separate, and 
 dispose of ourselves as our different inclinations point. 
 Mr. Cowj:)er to Homer. ]\Ir. E. to transcribing what is 
 already translated. Lady Hesketh to work, and to books 
 alternately ; and ]\Irs. Un^vin, who in everything but her 
 face is like a kind angel sent from heaven to guard the 
 health of our poet, is busy in domestic concerns. At one, 
 our labours finished, the poet and I walk for two hours. 
 I then drink most ])lentiful draughts of instruction which 
 flow from his lips, instruction so sweet, and goodness so 
 exquisite, that one loves it for its flavour. At three we 
 return and dress, and the succeeding hour brings dinner 
 upon the table, and collects again the smiling counte- 
 nances of the family to partake of the neat and elegant 
 meal. Conversation continues till tea-time, when an enter- 
 taining volume engi'osses our thoughts till the last meal 
 is announced. Conversation again, and then rest before 
 twelve, to enable us to rise again to the same round of in- 
 nocent, virtuous pleasure. Can you wonder that I should 
 feel melancholy at the thought of lea\nng such a family ; 
 or rather, wiU you not be surprised at my resolution to 
 depart from this quiet scene on Thursday next 1 " 
 
 Just at this time, too, Loi'd Thurlow, who had not found 
 time to acknowledge the receipt of the first volume of his 
 Poems, was moved by the growing fame of the author of 
 The Task, and by a personal application from Lady Hes- 
 keth, to send his name as a subscriber to the translation of 
 Homer, and even to enter into a correspondence with Cowper 
 as to the comparative merits of rhyme and blank verse. 
 About the same period, too, an attempt was made to enlist 
 Cowper's pen in the seiwice of the Anti-Slavery cause. 
 He complied with the request, so far as to produce five short
 
 156 Ln^ OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 pieces, whicli were largely circulated, and gave important 
 aid to the movement. 
 
 But now, in that kind Providence which constantly 
 watched over him, a new and younger friend was sent to his 
 aid, whose natural and ardent attachment was one main 
 support of the last ten years of his life. His mother, as 
 we have seen, was a Donne, of the Norfolk family of that 
 name. Her brother, Roger Donne, rector of Catfield in 
 Norfolk, left a grandson, John Johnson, now a student at 
 Cambridge. This youth took advantage of the vacation to 
 open a personal acquaintance with his relative, by a visit 
 to Weston. He brought with him some poetical attempts 
 of his own, and at once won the heart of his kinsman. 
 Two letters to Lady Hesketh will at once develope the 
 nature of this new attachment ; an attachment which was 
 to prove, in its results, of the greatest importance to the 
 few remaining years of Cowper's life : — 
 
 " Tlie Lodge, Jan. 23, 1790. 
 "My dearest Coz, — 1 had a letter yesterday from the 
 wild boy Johnson, for whom I have conceived a great 
 affection. It was just such a letter as I like, of the true 
 helter-skelter kind ; and though he writes a remarkably 
 good hand, scribbled with such rapidity that it was barely 
 legible. He gave me a droll account of the adventures of 
 Lord Howard's note, and of his own in pursuit of it. The 
 poem he brought me came as from Lord Howard, with his 
 lordship's request that I would revise it. It is in the 
 form of a pastoral, and is entitled, The Tale of the Lute; or, 
 the Beauties of Audley End. I read it attentively ; was 
 much pleased with part of it, and part of it I equally dis- 
 liked. I told him so, and in such terms as one naturally 
 uses when there seems to be no occasion to qualify or to 
 alleviate censure. I observed him afterwards somewhat 
 more thoughtful and silent, but occasionally as pleasant as 
 usual ; and in Kilwick wood, where we walked the next 
 day, the truth came out, that he was himself the author ; 
 and that Lord Howard, not approving it altogether, and 
 several friends of his own age to whom he had shown it, 
 differing from his lordship in opinion, and being highly
 
 JOHN JOHXSOX. 157 
 
 pleased with it, he had come at last to a resolution to 
 abide by my judgment ; a measure to which Lord Howard, 
 by all means, advised him. He accordingly brought it, 
 and will bring it again in the summer, when we shall lay 
 our heads together, and try to mend it. 
 
 " I have lately had a letter, also, from Mrs. King, to 
 whom I had written to inquire whether she were living or 
 dead. She tells me the critics expect from my Homer 
 everything in some parts, and that in others I shall fall 
 short. These are the Cambridge critics ; and she has her 
 intelligence from the botanical professor, Martyn. That 
 gentleman, in rej^ly, answers them that I shall fall short in 
 nothing, but shall disappoint them all. It shall be my 
 endeavour to do so, and I am not without hope of suc- 
 ceeding. 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 " The Lodcje, Jan. 20, 1790. 
 
 "My blunder in thanking thee, my dearest coz, for a 
 basket instead of a box, seems to have had something 
 prophetic in it, for in the evening a basket sent from you, 
 and filled with excellent fishes, actually arrived ; with 
 some of them we have compensated our neighbours for 
 pigs presented to us in times past, and on the remainder 
 we have chiefly subsisted ever since, nor is our stock even 
 now exhausted. Many thanks are due to thee for this 
 supply, and we pay them with much sincerity. 
 
 " Could I blunder as I did in the instance of my Nor- 
 folk cousin — always, I mean, with such ludicrous conse- 
 quences — I should be tempted to do it daily. I have not 
 laughed so much many a long day as at your and his droll 
 account of the strange and unimaginable distresses that 
 ensued on the mere omission of those two imj)ortant syl- 
 lables that compose the name of Johnson. 
 
 "It gives me great pleasure that you are so much 
 pleased with him, because I was much pleased with him 
 myself. There is a simplicity in his character that charms 
 me, and the more because it is so great a rarity. Humour 
 he certainly has, and of the most agreeable kind. His 
 letter to you proves it, and so does his poem ; and that he
 
 158 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 has many other talents, which, at present, his shyness too 
 much suppresses, I doubt not. He has a countenance 
 which, with all the sweetness of temper that it expresses, 
 expresses also a miud much given to reflection, and an 
 understanding that in due time will know how to show 
 itself to advantage. 
 
 " An indisposition, from which Mrs. Frog* was not suffi- 
 ciently recovered to see company, and especially a stranger, 
 was the reason of our not being invited while he was 
 with me. She is now, however, perfectly restored ; I 
 dined there the day after he went, and dine there again 
 to-morrow. 
 
 " The yoimg man begged that he might carry away with 
 him eight or ten books of Homer, which he would tran- 
 scribe for me, he said, at Cambridge ; but I feared to trust 
 them in that pestilent place, where some of his wild young 
 Trigri/mates might have snatched them from him, and have 
 done with them I know not what. 
 
 " I wish you to read Adriano ; or, the First of Jwne, and 
 tell me what you think of it. Johnson has sent it to me 
 for my opinion, and I must return it soon. It is rather a 
 thin octavo, and will not occupy much of thy time. 
 
 " Our friends at the hall are all pretty well at present ; 
 but the lord of the mansion has not perfectly recovered 
 his foot again. Mrs. Unwin still has her fever, which 
 chiefly attacks her in the night. Beau is well, as are the 
 two cats, and the three birds, whose cages I am going to 
 clean, and aU send their love to you. 
 
 " Yours, my dear, 
 
 " Wm. C." 
 
 Yoimg Johnson took with him some portions of Homer 
 to transcribe, having eagerly offered his services in this way. 
 He also, having observed with what affection Cowper spoke 
 of his mother, took means, on his return mto Norfolk, to 
 induce her niece, Mrs. Bodham, to send to Cowper the only 
 portrait in existence of this beloved relative. This pre- 
 cious gift was immediately acknowledged in the following 
 letter : — 
 
 * Mrs. Tlirockmorton.
 
 HIS mother's picture. 159 
 
 " Weston, Feb. 27, 1 7'JO. 
 " My dearest Rose, — Whom I thought withered, and 
 fallen from the stalk, but whom I find still alive : nothing 
 could give me greater pleasure than to know it, and to 
 learn it from yourself. I loved you dearly when you were 
 a child, and love you not a jot the less for having ceased 
 to be so. Every creature that bears any affinity to my 
 mother is dear to me, and you, the daughter of her brother, 
 are but one remove distant from her : I love you, there- 
 fore, and love you much, both for her sake and for your 
 own. The world could not have furnished you with a 
 present so acceptable to me as the picture which you have 
 so kindly sent me. I received it the night before last, and 
 viewed it with a trepidation of nerves and spirits some- 
 what akin to what I should have felt, had the dear original 
 presented herself to my embraces. I kissed it, and hung 
 it where it is the last object that I see at night, and of 
 course the first on which I open my eyes in the morn- 
 ing. She died when I completed my sixth year ; yet I 
 remember her well, and am an ocular witness of the great 
 fidelity of the copy. I remember, too, a multitude of the 
 maternal tendernesses which I received from her, and 
 which have endeared her memory to me beyond expres- 
 sion. There is in me, I believe, more of the Donne than 
 of the Cowjier ; and though I love all of both names, and 
 have a thousand reasons to love those of my own name, 
 yet I feel the bond of nature draw me vehemently to 
 your side. I was thought in the days of my childhood 
 much to resemble my mother ; and in my natural temper, 
 of which, at the age of fifty-eight, I must be supposed to 
 be a competent judge, can trace both her and my late 
 uncle, your father. Somewhat of his irritability ; and a 
 
 little, I would hope, both of his and of her , I know not 
 
 what to call it, without seeming to praise myself, which is 
 not my intention, but speaking to _yoM, I will even speak 
 out, and say good nature. Add to all this, I deal much in 
 poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, the Dean of St. 
 Paul's, and I think I shall have proved myself a Donne at 
 all points. The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you all.
 
 160 LIPE OF WILTJAM COWPER. 
 
 " I account it a happy event that brought' the dear 
 boy, your nephew, to my knowledge ; and that, breaking 
 through all the restraints which his natural bashfulness 
 imposed on him, he determined to find me out. He is 
 amiable to a degree that I have seldom seen, and I often 
 long with impatience to see him again. 
 
 " My dearest cousin, what shall I say in answer to yoiir 
 affectionate invitation ? I must say this — I cannot come 
 now, nor soon, and I wish with all my heart I could. But 
 I will tell you what may be done, perhaps, and it will 
 answer to us just as well : you and Mr. Bodham can come 
 to "Weston, can you not ? The summer is at hand, there 
 are roads and wheels to bring you, and you are neither of 
 you translating Homer. I am crazed that I cannot ask 
 you altogether, for want of house-room ; but for Mr. Bod- 
 ham and yourself we have good room ; and equally good 
 for any third in the shape of a Donne, whether named 
 Hewitt, Bodham, Balls, or Johnson, or by whatever name 
 distinguished. Mrs. Hewitt has particular claims upon 
 me ; she was my playfelldV at Berkhampstead, and has a 
 share in my warmest affections. Pray tell her so. Neither 
 do I at all forget my cousin Harriet. She and I have been 
 many a time merry at Catfield, and have made the par- 
 sonage ring with laughter. Give my love to her. Assure 
 yourself, my dearest cousin, that I shall receive you as if 
 you were my sister, and Mrs. Unwin is, for my sake, pre- 
 pared to do the same. When she has seen you, she will 
 love you for your own. 
 
 " I am much obliged to Mr. Bodham for his kindness to 
 my Homer, and with my love to you all, and with Mrs. 
 Unwin's kijid respects, am, 
 
 " My dear, dear Rose, ever yours, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 The beautiful piece to which this little incident gave 
 birth, must not be omitted in this place, familiar as it will 
 be to most of our readers. Not until the English language 
 shall have perished from the memory of mankind, will the 
 following lines be forgotten : —
 
 LINES ON HIS mother's PICTURE. IGl 
 
 " On the Keceipt of my Mothek's Picture. 
 
 " Oh, that those lips had language ! Life has pass'd 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
 Those lips ai'e thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me; 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
 ' Grieve not, my child, chase all thy feai's away ! ' 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 (Bless'd be the art that can immortalize, 
 The art that baffle's Time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 
 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
 
 welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
 Who bidd'st me honoru" with an ai'tless song, 
 Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 
 
 1 will obey, not wiDingly alone, 
 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
 And, while that face renews my fiUal grief, 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
 Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
 A momentary dream that thou art she. 
 
 My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed '! 
 Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just begun '.' 
 Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss : 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! It answers — Yes. 
 I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 
 And, turning from my nurserj' window, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 But was it such? — It was. Where thou ait gone, 
 Adieus and fai-eweUs are a sound unknown. 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 The pai'ting word shidl pass my lips no more ! 
 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern. 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
 What ardently I wished, I long believed. 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived, 
 
 M 
 
 r
 
 162 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 By expectation every day beguiled, 
 
 Dupe oitomorroiv even from a child. 
 
 Thus many a sad to-moiTow came and went, 
 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 
 I learn'd at last submission to my lot ; 
 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 
 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
 And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
 Drew me to school along the public way, 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 
 'Tia now become a history little known. 
 That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. 
 Short-lived possession ! but the record fair. 
 That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
 Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 
 That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 The biscuit or confectionary plum ; 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 
 By thy own hand, tiU fresh they shone and glow'd ; 
 All tins, and more endearing still than aU, 
 Thy constant tiow of love, that knew no fall, 
 Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, 
 That humom* interposed too often makes ; 
 All this still legible in memory's page. 
 And still to be so to my latest age, 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
 Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here. 
 
 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours. 
 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers. 
 The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
 I prick'd them into paper with a pin, 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
 Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), 
 Could those few pleasant days again appear. 
 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ?
 
 LINES ON HIS mother's PICTURE. IfiS 
 
 I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
 Seems so to be desired, i>erhaps I might, — 
 But no — what here we call our life is suuh, 
 So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
 That T should ill requite thee, to constrain 
 Thy unbound spii-it into bonds again, 
 
 Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
 (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd), 
 Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, 
 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile. 
 There sits quiescent on the floods that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
 Wliile airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore, 
 ' ^Miere tempests never beat nor billows roai*,' * 
 And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
 Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
 Always from port withheld, always distress'd — 
 Me howling blasts di'ive devious, tempest-toss'd, 
 Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, 
 And day by day some current's thwarting force 
 Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
 Yet tlie thought, that thou art safe, and he ; 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me! 
 My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
 From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth : 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
 The son of pai-ents pass'd into the skies. 
 And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
 His wonted course, yet what I -wish'd is done. 
 By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
 I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; 
 To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, 
 Without the sin of violating thine : 
 And while the wings of Fancy still are free, 
 And I can view this mimic show of tliee, 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
 Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left." 
 
 Garth.
 
 164 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 We have noticed the gathering of new friends around 
 Cowper in the decline of his life, and we shall soon have to 
 notice the painful circumstances which rendered this fresh 
 aid so essential to him. That admirable woman, who had 
 been, for more than twenty years, more than mother and 
 more than wife to him, was now in her sixty-fourth year, 
 and each succeeding winter made a visible impression on 
 her frame. The brief remainder of her life was passed in 
 circumstances tending rather to depress Cowper's spirits, 
 and burden his mind, than, as heretofore, when she was 
 the stay and prop on which he constantly leaned. But the 
 All-wise and All-merciful had already prepared those who 
 were, for the remaining few years of Cowper's life, to be the 
 successors and substitutes for Mary Unwin. 
 
 In January, 1789, Cowper thus writes : — 
 
 "I have more items than one by which to remember 
 the late frost — it has cost me the bitterest uneasiness. 
 ]\lrs. Unwin got a fall on the gravel-walk, covered with ice, 
 which has confined her to an upper chamber ever since. 
 She neither broke nor dislocated any bones, but received 
 such a contusion below the hip as crippled her completely. 
 She now begins to recover, after having been as helpless as 
 a child for a whole fortnight ; but so slowly at present, 
 that her amendment is even now almost imperceptible." 
 
 In December of the same year he thus describes to 
 Mr. Newton Mrs. Unwin's condition : — 
 
 " Her case is, at present, my only subject of uneasiness 
 that is not immediately personal, and properly my own. 
 She has almost constant headaches, almost a constant pain 
 in her side, which nobody understands, and her lameness 
 within the last half year is very little amended. But her 
 spirits are good, because supported by comforts which 
 depend not on the state of the body, and I do not know 
 that with all these pains her looks are at all altered." 
 
 Similar reports continue to appear in many of his 
 
 letters for the next year or two, till, towards the close of 
 
 "^1, the stroke which had so long impended over him 
 
 "■^ fell. Cowper narrates it to Mr. Rose in the fol- 
 
 'ile and touching words : —
 
 CONDITION OP MRS. UNA^'IN. 165 
 
 « The Lodge, Dec. 21, 1791. 
 " My dear Friend, — It grieves rue, after having indulged 
 a little hope that I might sec you in the holidays, to be 
 obliged to disappoint myself. The occasion, too, is such 
 as will insure me your sympathy. 
 
 " On Saturday last, while I was at my desk near the 
 window, and Mrs. Unwin at the fireside opposite to it, I 
 heard her suddenly exclaim, ' Oh ! Mr. Cowper, don't let 
 me fall ! ' I turned and saw her actually falling, together 
 with her chair, and started to her side just in time to 
 prevent her. She was seized with a violent giddiness, 
 which lasted, though with some abatement, the whole day, 
 and was attended, too, with some other very, very alarming 
 symptoms. At present, however, she is relieved from the 
 vertigo, and seems in all respects better. 
 
 " She has been my faithful and affectionate nurse for 
 many years, and consequently has a claim on all my 
 attentions. She has them, and will have them as long as 
 she wants them ; which will pi'obably be, at the best, a 
 considerable time to come. I feel the shock, as you may 
 suppose, in every nerve. God grant that there may be no 
 repetition of it. Another such a stroke upon her would, I 
 think, overset me completely ; but at present I hold up 
 bravely. 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 Thus, at one blow, Cowper's prop was struck from him ; 
 and we need not wonder that every remaining step of the 
 way to the grave became increasingly gloomy and painful. 
 
 Meanwhile, however, he had relieved himself of one 
 great burden ; his largest, though not most valuable, 
 labour, was completed. In the autumn of 1790 he thus 
 wrote to his Norfolk cousin, Mrs. Bodham : — 
 
 " Weston, Sept. 9, 1790. 
 " My dearest Cousin, — T am truly aovvy to be forced 
 after all to resign the hope of seeing you and Mr. Bodham 
 at Weston this year ; the next may, possibly, be more 
 propitious, and I heartily wish it may. Poor Catherine's 
 unseasonable indisposition has also cost us a disappoint- 
 ment which we much regi'ct ; and, were it not that Johimy
 
 1G6 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 has made shift to reach us, we should think ourselves 
 completely unfortunate. But him we have, and him we 
 will hold as long as we can, so expect not very soon to see 
 him in Norfolk. He is so harmless, cheerful, gentle, and 
 good-tempered, and T am so entirely at my ease with him, 
 that I cannot surrender him without a needs must, even to 
 those who have a superior claim upon him. He left \is 
 yesterday morning ; and whither do you think he is gone, 
 and on what errand ? Gone, as sure as you are alive, to 
 London, and to convey my Homer to the bookseller's. 
 But he will return the day after to-morrow, and I mean to 
 part with him no more till necessity shall force us asunder. 
 Suspect me not, my cousin, of being such a monster as to 
 have imposed this task myself on your kind nephew, or 
 even to have thought of doing it. It happened that one 
 day, as we chatted by the fire-side, I expressed a wish that 
 I could hear of some trusty body going to London, to 
 whose care I might consign my voluminous labours, the 
 work of five years. For I purpose never to visit that city 
 again myself, and should have been uneasy to have left a 
 charge, of so much importance to me, altogether to the 
 care of a stage-coachman. Johnny had no sooner heard 
 my wish than, off"ering himself to the service, he fulfilled 
 it ; and his offer was made in s-uch terms, and accompanied 
 with a countenance and manner expressive of so much 
 alacrity, that, unreasonable as I thought it at first to give 
 him so much trouble, I soon found that I should mortify 
 him by a refusal. He is gone, therefore, with a box full of 
 poetry, of which I think nobody will plunder him. He 
 has only to say what it i.s, and there is no commodity I 
 think a freebooter would covet less. 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 The subscription-list for Homer, thanks to the zeal of 
 Lady Hcsketh, Mr. Hill, and Mr. Johnson, was well filled, 
 and the publisher agreed to pay him a thousand pounds 
 for the edition, leaving the copyright in his hands. 
 
 A little before this, the laureateship had become vacant 
 by the death of Warton. Lady Hesketh wished to procure 
 it for him, and had she made the attempt her success
 
 DECLINES TO ASK FOR THE LAUREATESHIP. T67 
 
 would have been more than probable. But Cowper's answer 
 to the suggestion was as follows : — 
 
 " The Lodge, May 28, 1790. 
 "My dearest Coz, — I thank thee for the offer of thy 
 best services on this occasion. But Heaven guard my brows 
 from the wreath you mention, whatever wreath beside may 
 hereafter adorn them ! It would be a leaden extinguisher 
 clapped on all the fire of my genius, and I should never 
 more produce a line worth reading. To speak seriously, 
 it would make me miserable, and therefore I am sure 
 that thou, of all my friends, would least wish me to 
 wear it. 
 
 " Adieu, ever thine — in Homer-hurry, 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 A short time before this Cowper had, at Mr. Newton's 
 request, translated a narrative of a Dutch minister of the 
 name of Van Lier, originally written in Latin ; and this 
 translation appeared shortly before the publication of 
 Homer. It was entitled. The Power of Grace illustrated. 
 Cowper says, writing to Mr. Newton : — 
 
 " I have no objection to be known as the translator 
 of Van Lier's Letters, when they shall be published. Rather 
 I am ambitious of it, as an honour. It wiU serve to prove 
 that, if I have spent much time to little purpose in the 
 translation of Homer, some small portion of my time has, 
 however, been weU disposed of." 
 
 Shortly after his refusal to permit his friend to apply 
 for the laureateship, we find the following intei-esting letter 
 to Mr. Johnson : — 
 
 " Weston, June 7, 1790. 
 
 " My dear John, — You know my engagements, and are 
 consequently able to account for my silence. I will not 
 therefore waste time and paper in mentioning them, but 
 wiU only say that, added to those with which you are 
 acquainted, I have had other hindrances, such as business, 
 and a disorder of my spirits, to which I have been aU my 
 life subject. At present I am, thank God ! perfectly well, 
 both in mind and body. Of you I am always mindful, 
 whether I write or not, and very desirous to sec you. You
 
 168 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 will remember, I hope, that you are under engagements to 
 us, and as soon as your Norfolk friends can spare you, will 
 fulfil them. Give us all the time you can, and all that they 
 can spare to us ! 
 
 " You never pleased me more than when you told me you 
 had abandoned your mathematical pursuits. It grieved me 
 to think that you were wasting your time merely to gain a 
 little Cambridge fame not worth having. I cannot be con- 
 tented that your renown should thrive nowhere but on the 
 banks of the Cam. Conceive a nobler ambition, and never 
 let your honour be circumscribed by the paltry dimensions 
 of a university ! It is well that you have already, as you 
 observe, acquired sufficient information in that science to 
 enable you to pass creditably such examinations as I sup- 
 pose you must hereafter undergo. Keep what you have 
 gotten, and be content. ]\Iore is needless. 
 
 " You could not apply to a worse than I am to advise 
 you concerning your studies. I was never a regiilar student 
 myself, but lost the most valuable years of my life in an 
 attorney's office, and in the Temple. I will not therefore 
 give myself airs, and affect to know what I know not. The 
 affair is of great importance to you, and you should be 
 directed in it by a wiser than I. To speak, however, in very 
 general terms on the subject, it seems to me that your chief 
 concern is with history, natural philosophy, logic, and 
 divinity. As to metaphysics, I know little about them. 
 But the very little that I do know has not taught me to 
 admire them. Life is too short to afford time even for 
 serious trifles. Pursue what you know to be attainable, 
 make truth your object, and your studies will make you a 
 wise man ! Let your divinity, if I may advise, be the 
 divinity of the glorious Reformation : I mean in contradis- 
 tinction to Ai'minianism, and all the isms that were ever 
 broached in this world of error and ignorance. 
 
 " The divinitj" of the lieformation is called Calvinism, 
 but injuriously. It has been that of the Church of Christ 
 in all ages. It is the divinity of St. Paul, and of St. Paul's 
 Master, who met him in his way to Damascus. 
 
 " I have written in great haste, that I might finish if 
 possible before breakfast. Adieu ! Let us see you soon ;
 
 CONSENTS TO EDIT MILTON. 169 
 
 the sooner the better. Give my love to the silent lady, the 
 Rose, and all my friends around you. 
 
 "W. C." 
 
 Homer -was published in the summer of 1791. In 
 August, Cowper thus wrote to Johnson : — 
 
 " Weston, Aug. 9, 1791. 
 " My dearest Johnny, — The httle that I have heard 
 about Homer myself has been equally, or more flattering 
 
 than Dr. 's intelligence, so that I have good reason 
 
 to hope that I have not studied the old Grecian, and how 
 to dress him, so long and so intensely, to no purpose. At 
 present I am idle, both on account of my eyes, and be- 
 cause I know not to what to attach myself in particular. 
 Many different plans and projects are recommended to me. 
 Some call aloud for original verse, othera for more transla- 
 tion, and others for other things. Pro\adeuce, I hope, will 
 direct me in my choice ; for other guide I have none, nor 
 wish for another. God bless you, my dearest Johnny. 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 In fact scarcely a month had elapsed, after the completion 
 of his Homer, before the publisher induced him to enter 
 upon a fresh engagement, to wit, the editing a new and 
 splendid edition of Milton. " My business (he says) wiU be 
 to select notes from others, and to write original notes ; to 
 translate the Latin and Itahan poems, and to give a correct 
 text. I shall have years allowed me to do it in." 
 
 This undertaking proved a burden to his declining 
 years. Yet his faithful counsellor, Mrs. Unwin, earnestly 
 wished him to engage in it. She writes to a friend : — 
 
 " Ever since the close of his translation I have had 
 many anxious thoughts how he would spend the advancing 
 winter ; but a gracious Providence has dissipated all my 
 fears on that head." 
 
 This was in October, 1791. In three months after- 
 wards, Haylcy, another of those fi-iends who were raised 
 up and gathered round him in the last eight or nine years 
 of his life, addressed to Cowper a letter, arising out of a 
 reported rivalry between publishers and editors, concerning 
 the production of Milton's works. A correspondence en-
 
 1 70 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPEH. 
 
 sued, which produced an invitation to Weston ; and, while 
 Hayley was staying there, in May 1792, Mrs. Unwin's 
 second paralytic seizure took place. Two brief letters to 
 Lady Hesketh describe the aflQiction, and Cowper's feelings 
 under it : — 
 
 " Weston, May 24, 1792. 
 
 " I wish with all my heart, my dearest coz, that I had 
 not ill news for the subject of the present letter. My 
 friend, my Mary, has again been attacked by the same 
 disorder that threatened me last year with the loss of her, 
 and of which you were yourself a witness. Gregson would 
 not allow that first stroke to be paralytic, but this he 
 acknowledges to be so ; and with respect to the former, I 
 never had myself any doubt that it was : but this has been 
 much the severest. Her speech has been almost unin- 
 telligible from the moment that she was struck ; it is with 
 difficulty that she opens her eyes, and she cannot keep 
 them open, the muscles necessary to the purpose being 
 contracted ; and as to self-moving powers, from place to 
 place, and the use of her I'ight hand and arm, she has 
 entirely lost them. 
 
 " It has happened well that, of all men living, the man 
 most qualified to assist and comfort me is here, though till 
 within these few days I never saw him, and a few weeks 
 since had no expectation that I ever should. You have 
 already guessed that I mean Hayley. Hayley, who loves 
 me as if he had known me from my cradle. When he 
 returns to town, as he must, alas ! too soon, he will pay 
 his respects to you. 
 
 " I will not conclude without adding that our poor 
 patient is beginning, I hope, to recover from this stroke 
 also ; but her amendment is slow, as must be expected at 
 her time of life, and in such a disorder. I am as well 
 myself as you have ever known me in a time of much 
 trouble, and even better. 
 
 " It was not possible to prevail on Mrs. Unwin to let 
 me send for Dr. Kerr, but Hayley has written to his friend, 
 Dr. Austin, a representation of her case, and we expect his 
 opinion and advice to-morrow. In the meantime, we have 
 borrowed an electrical machine from our neighbour Socket
 
 ILLNESS OF MRS. UN WIN. 171 
 
 the effect of which she tried yesterday, and the day before, 
 and we tliiiik it has been of material service. 
 
 " She was seized while Hayley and I were walking, and 
 Mr. Greatheed, who called while we were absent, was with 
 her. 
 
 " I forgot in my last to thank thee for the proposed 
 amendments of thy friend. Whoever he is, make my com- 
 pliments to him, and thank him. The passages to which 
 he objects have been all altered ; and when he shall see 
 them new dressed, I hope he will hke them better. 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 " The Lodge, May 2fi, 1792. 
 
 " My dearest Cousin, — Knowing that you will be anxious 
 to learn how we go on, I write a few lines to inform you 
 that Mrs. Unwin daily recovers a little strength, and a little 
 power of utterance ; but she seems strongest, and her 
 speech is more distinct, in a morning. Hayley has been 
 all in all to us on this very afflictive occasion. Love him, 
 I charge you, dearly for my sake. Where could I have 
 found a man, except himself, who could have made him- 
 self so necessary to me in so short a time, that I absolutely 
 know not how to live without him ? 
 
 " Adieu, my dear sweet coz. Mrs. Unwin, as plainly as 
 her poor lips can speak, sends her best love, and Hayley 
 threatens in a few days to lay close siege to your affections 
 in person. 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 With this event seems to close the active part of the 
 life of Cowper. All that remains is gloom and suffering. 
 His life had been, for so long a period, interwoven with 
 that of Mrs. Unwin, that the stroke which prostrated the 
 one, deprived of all remaining vital energy the other. Tlie 
 brief remainder of our narrative will be one of almost 
 unbroken gloom.
 
 172 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWrER. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 DECLINING YEARS AND DEATH. 
 A.D. 1792-1800. 
 
 We now approach the close of the poet's life, and find his 
 later days " labour and sorrow." Yet it is impossible to 
 overlook the merciful kindness of his Heavenly Father, 
 who raised up, in his hour of need, more and younger 
 friends, to watch over his most helpless state. Southey — 
 not apt to recognize anything supernatural save on the 
 clearest evidence — frankly admits it here. He says : — 
 
 " From the time when, in the prime of manhood, he 
 was rendered heli^less, he was provided for by others ; that 
 Providence, which feeds the ravens, raised up one person 
 after another to minister unto him. ]\Irs. 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 almost filial affection. Sad 
 as his story is, it is not altogether moiiniful : he had never 
 to complain of injustice, nor of injuries, nor even 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 popu- 
 lar 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 was 
 trained up. He would not have found the way to fame, 
 unless he had missed the way to fortune. He miglit have 
 been happier in his generation ; but he could never have
 
 DKCLINING YEARS. 173 
 
 been so useful ; with that generation his memory wovild 
 have passed away, and he would have slept ■ft-ith his 
 fathers, instead of living with those who are the glory of 
 their country and the benefactors of their kind." 
 
 In the summer of 1792, partly to gratify Hayley, but 
 chiefly in the hope of reviving Mrs. Unwin's health, Cowper 
 visited Sussex. He thus announces his intention to Mr. 
 Bull. 
 
 " We ai'e on the eve of a journey, and a long one. On 
 this very day se'unight we set out for Eartham, the seat of 
 my brother bard, Mr. Hayley, on the other side of London, 
 nobody knows where, a hundred and twenty miles of!'. 
 Pray for us, my friend, that we may have a safe going and 
 return. It is a tremendous exploit, and I feel a thousand 
 anxieties when I think of it. But a promise, made to him 
 when he was here, that we would go if we could, and a sort 
 of persuasion that we can if we will, oblige us to it. The 
 journey, and the change of air, together with the novelty 
 to us of the scene to which we are going, may, I hope, be 
 useful to us both ; especially to Airs. Unwin, who has most 
 need of restoratives." 
 
 And on his arrival be thus writes : — 
 
 " Here we are at Eartham, in the most elegant mansion 
 that I ever inhabited, and surrounded by the most beauti- 
 ful pleasure-gi-ounds that I have ever seen ; but which, 
 dissipated as my powers of thought arc at present, I will 
 not undertake to describe. It shall suffice me to say that 
 they occupy three sides of a hill, which in Buckingham- 
 shire might well pass for a mountain, and from the summit 
 of which is beheld a most magnificent landscape, bounded 
 by the sea, and in one part by the Isle of Wight, which 
 may also be seen plainly from the window of the libraiy 
 in which I am writing. It pleased God to carry us both 
 through the journey with far less difficulty and incon- 
 venience than I expected ; I began it, indeed, with a thou- 
 sand fears, and when we arrived the first evening at Barnet, 
 found myself oppressed in spirit to a degree that could 
 hardly be exceeded. I saw Mrs. Unwin weary, as well she 
 might be, and heard such noises, both \vithin the house 
 and without, that I concluded she would get no rest. But
 
 174 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 I was mercifully disappointed. She rested, though not 
 well, yet sufficiently. Here we found our friend Rose, who 
 had walked from his house in Chancery Lane to meet us, 
 and to greet us ^vith his best wishes. At Kingston, where 
 we dined the second day, I found my old and much-valued 
 friend, General Cowper, whom I had not seen for thirty 
 years, and but for this journey should never have seen 
 again ; and when we arrived at Eipley, where we slept the 
 second night, we were both in a better condition of body 
 and of mind than on the day preceding. Here we found a 
 quiet inn, that housed, as it happened, that night no com- 
 pany but ourselves ; we slept well, and rose perfectly re- 
 freshed, and, except some terrors that I felt at passing over 
 the Sussex Hills at moonlight, met with little to complain 
 of till we arrived about ten o'clock at Eartliam. Here we 
 are as happy as it is in the power of earthly good to make 
 us. It is almost a paradise in which we dweU ; and our 
 reception has been the kindest that it was possible for 
 friendship and hospitality to contrive." 
 
 But no external circumstances could compensate for 
 the loss of Mrs, Unv\an's long-accustomed support ; she 
 who for twenty years had been his prop and guard, now- 
 had to lean upon him. Arriving at home in September, he 
 thus writes to Hayley : — 
 
 " Chaos himself, even the chaos of Milton, is not sur- 
 rounded more with confusion, nor has a mind more com- 
 pletely in a hubbub, than I experience at the present 
 moment. A bad night, succeeded by an east wind, and a 
 sky all in sables, have such an effect on my spirits, that if 
 I did not consult my own comfort more than yours, I 
 should not write to-day, for I shall not entertain you 
 much ; yet your letter, though containing no very pleasant 
 tidings, has afforded me some relief. It tells me, indeed, 
 that you have been dispirited yourself ; all this grieves me, 
 but then there is warmth of heart and a kindness in it that 
 do me good. I will endeavour not to repay you in notes 
 of sorrow and despondence, though all my sprightly chords 
 seem broken. In truth, one day excepted, I have not seen 
 the day when I have been cheerful since I left you. ily 
 spirits, I think, are almost constantly lower than they
 
 DECLINING TEARS. 17 J 
 
 were ; the approach of winter is, perhaps, the cause, and if 
 it be, I have nothing better to expect for a long time to come. 
 I began a long letter to you yestei'day, and proceeded through 
 two sides of the sheet, but so much of my nei'vous fever 
 found its way into it, that, on looking over it this morning, 
 I determined not to send it. Your wishes to disperse my 
 melancholy would, I am sure, prevail, did that event depend 
 on the warmth and sincerity with which you frame them ; 
 but it has baffled both wishes and prayers, and those the 
 most fervent that could be made, so many yeai-s, that the 
 case seems hopeless." 
 
 These frequent, and, indeed, almost continual attacks 
 of depression, combined with the attention which Cowper 
 paid to promote the comfort and facilitate the recovery of 
 Mrs. Unwin, prevented him entirely from persevering in 
 his literary imdertaking. In his letters he makes this a 
 subject of particular regret. The benefits he had derived 
 from his regular habits of study during his translation of 
 Homer, made him anxious to be again regularly employed. 
 To his friend Mr. Rose he thus describes the state of his 
 mind in this respect : — "I wish that I were as industrious and 
 as much occupied as you, though in a different way ; but it 
 is not so with me. Mrs. Uu^\^n's great debility is of itself a 
 hindrance, such as would eftectually disable me. Till she can 
 work and read, and fill up her time as usual (aU of which is 
 at present entirely out of her power), I may now and then 
 find time to write a letter, but I shall write nothing more. 
 I cannot sit with my pen in my hand and my books before 
 me, while she is in effect in solitude, silent, and looking at 
 the fire. To this hindrance that other has been added, of 
 which you are aware, a want of spirits, such as I have 
 never known when I was not absolutely laid by, since I 
 commenced an author. How long I shall be continued in 
 these uncomfortable circumstances is known only to Him 
 who, as He will, disposes of us aU." 
 
 It was about this period, when, with a mind torn ^vith 
 grief and anxiety for ]\Irs. Unwin, and weakened by repeated 
 attacks of hypochondria, Cowper began to lean with piti- 
 able credulity on the supposed "second sight," or second 
 hearing of an Olney schoolmaster, of the name of Teedon.
 
 176 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 His early history, even from childhood, shows him to have 
 been at all times liable to attach an irrational importance 
 to thoughts, or fancied words, which passed through his 
 brain. One of his notes to Teedon (October 16, 1792), will 
 show how far these fancies were now beginning to possess 
 his mind : — 
 
 " Dear Sir, — On Saturday you saw me a little better 
 than I had been when I wrote last ; but the night foUow- 
 ing brought with it an uncommon deluge of distress, such 
 as entirely overwhelmed and astonished me. My horrors 
 were not to be described. But on Sunday, while I walked 
 with Mrs. Unwin and my cousin in the orchard, it pleased 
 God to enable me once more to approach him in prayer, 
 and I prayed silently for every thing that lay nearest my 
 heart with a considerable degree of hberty. Nor did I let 
 slip the occasion of praying for you. 
 
 " This experience I take to be a fulfilment of those 
 words : — 
 
 " ' The ear of the Lordis open to them that fear him, and 
 he will hear their cry.'' 
 
 " The next morning, at my waking, I heard these : — 
 " ' Fidfil thy promise to me^ 
 
 "And ever since I was favoured with that spiritual 
 freedom to make my requests known to God, I have en- 
 joyed some quiet, though not uninterruj)ted by threaten- 
 ings of the enemy. 
 
 " JMrs. Unwin has had a good night, and is in tolei'able 
 spirits this morning." 
 
 And again, in May, 1793, he wi-ites to the same Teedon 
 thus : — 
 
 " You receive assurances almost as often as you pray, of 
 spiritual good things intended for me ; and I feel in the 
 mean time every thing that denotes a man an outcast and 
 a reprobate. I dream in the night that God has rejected 
 me finally, and that all promises and all answers to prayer 
 made for me are mere delusions. I wake under a strong 
 and clear conviction that these communications are from 
 God, and in the course of the day nothing occurs to in- 
 vahdate that persuasion. As I have said before, there is a 
 mystery in this matter that I am not able to explain. I
 
 DECLINING YEARS. 177 
 
 believe myself the only instance of a uian to whom God 
 wall i)romise everything, and perform nothing." 
 
 This Avas a notion over which he had brooded for the 
 last seven years, and he reasoned upon it thus to the poor 
 simple man whom he had chosen, not for his philosopher, 
 but in a certain sense for his guide and friend. " I have 
 already told you that I heard a word in the year '86, which 
 has been a stone of stumbhng to me ever since. It was 
 this : — 
 
 " ' / icill promise you anything? 
 
 "This word, taken in connexion with my experience, 
 such as it has been ever since, seems so exactly accom- 
 plished, that it leaves me no power at all to believe the 
 promises made to you. You will tell me that it was not 
 from God. By what token am I to prove that % My expe- 
 rience verifies it. In the day I am occupied with my 
 studies, which, whatever they are, are certainly not of a 
 spiritual kind. In the night I generally sleep well, but 
 wake always under a terrible impression of the wrath of 
 God, and for the most part with w^ords that fill me with 
 alarm, and with the dread of woes to come. What is there 
 in all this that in the least impeaches the truth of the 
 threatening I have mentioned ? / will promise you any 
 thing : that is to say, much as I hate you, and miserable as 
 I design to make you, I will yet bid you be of good cheer 
 and expect the best, at the same time that I will show you 
 no favour. This, you will say, is unworthy of God. Alas ! 
 He is the fittest to judge what is worthy of him, and what 
 is otherwise. I can say but this, that his conduct and 
 dealings are totally changed toward me. Once he pi'omised 
 me much, and was so kind to me at the same time, that I 
 most confidently expected the performance. Now he pro- 
 mises me as much, but holds me always at an immense 
 distance, and, so far as I know, never deigns to speak to 
 me. What conclusions can I draw from these premises, 
 but that he who once loved now hates me, and is con- 
 stantly emi)loyed in verifying the notice of '86 ; that is to 
 say, in working distinctly contrary to his promises ? 
 
 " This is the labyrinth in which I am always be- 
 
 N
 
 178 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 wildered, and from wliicli I have hardly any hope of de- 
 hverauce." 
 
 To Mr. Newton, however, he could not reveal these 
 weaknesses. To him he writes in a more rational, though 
 equally mournful strain. Thus, on 
 
 ''Nov. 11, 1792. 
 
 " My dear Friend, — I am not so insensible of your kind- 
 ness in making me an exception from the number of your 
 correspondents, to whom you forbid the hope of hearing 
 from you till your present labours are ended, as to make 
 you wait longer for an answer to your last ; which, indeed, 
 would have had its answer before this time, had it been 
 possible for me to write. But so many have demands 
 upon me of a similar kind, and while Mrs. Unwin continues 
 an invalid, my opportunities of writing are so few, that I 
 am constrained to incur a long arrear to some, with whom 
 I would wish to be punctual. She can at present neither 
 work nor read ; and till she can do both, and amuse her- 
 self as usual, my own amusements of the pen must be 
 suspended. 
 
 " I, like you, have a work before me, and a work to 
 which I should be glad to address myself in earnest, but 
 cannot do it at present. When the opportunity comes, I 
 shall, like you, be under a necessity of interdicting some of 
 my usual correspondents, and of shortening my letters to 
 the excepted few. Many letters and much company are 
 incomjiatible with authorship, and the one as much as the 
 other. It will be long, I hope, before the world is put in 
 possession of a publication, which you design shoidd be 
 posthumous. 
 
 " Oh, for the day when your expectations of my com- 
 plete deUverance shall be verified ! At present it seems 
 very remote : so distant, indeed, that hardly the faintest 
 streak of it is visible in my horizon. The glimpse with 
 which I was favoured about a month since, has never been 
 repeated ; and the depression of my spirits has. The 
 future appears gloomy as ever ; and I seem to myself to be 
 scrambling always in the dark, among rocks and precipices, 
 without a guide, but with an enemy ever at my heels, pre-
 
 DECLmmo TEABS. 179 
 
 pared to piish me headlong. Thus I have spent twenty 
 years, but thus I shall not spend twenty years more. Long 
 ere that period arrives, the grand question concerning my 
 everlasting weal or woe wiU be decided. A question that 
 seems to have interested the enemy of mankind peculiarly, 
 for against none, so far as I have learned by reading or 
 otherwise, has he ever manifested such fury as I have 
 experienced at his hands ; yet all that I have felt is little in 
 comparison with what he often threatens me, so that even 
 God's omnipotence to save is a consideration that affords 
 me no comfort, while I seem to have a foe omnipotent to 
 destroy. This may appear to you a strange language, yet 
 it is not altogether unwarranted by Scripture. Tell me, 
 who are the Principalities and Powers in heavenly places 
 spoken of by Saint Paul ? Against them we have to war ; 
 and they cannot be the angels who have fallen from their 
 first estate, for they are said to have been long since thrust 
 down into perdition, and to be bound in chains of darkness 
 until the judgment of the great day. I recollect, and so do 
 you, perhaps, what was the opinion of Dr. Conyers on this 
 subject, and it will be a pleasure to me to know yours. If 
 my enemy's testimony could weigh with you as much as it 
 does sometimes with me, you would not hesitate long in 
 your answer, for he has a thousand times in my hearing 
 boasted himself supreme. 
 
 " Adieu, my dear friend, I have exhausted my time, 
 though not filled my paper. With our united affectionate 
 remembrances to yourself and IVIiss Catlctt, I remain, 
 
 " Truly yours, 
 
 " Wm. Cowper." 
 
 Hayley about this time, indulging somewhat of a selfish 
 vanity, had formed a scheme for a poem, to be entitled The 
 Four Ages, in which he and Cowper were each to take a 
 part, and Romney and Flaxman were to contribute their 
 artistic aid. Well planned, assuredly, for binding up the 
 contriver \vith Cowper's endless fame ; but we can feel no 
 disappointment, that so manifestly selfish a project never 
 was realised. 
 
 It was now the last struggle with Cowper for a real and
 
 180 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 endurable existence. His loving supporter, for more than 
 eight-and-twenty years, had been whoUy prostrated, and her 
 state of weakness and suffering inci'eased his own distress 
 and mental indisposition. 
 
 His correspondence now became brief and hurried, not 
 from any alteration of feeling, but from his needful atten- 
 tion to Mrs. Unwin, and her growing demands upon him. 
 
 " You win not judge me," he says to Mr. Newton, " by 
 the unfrequency of my letters ; nor suppose that my 
 thoughts about you are equally unfrequent. In truth they 
 are not. No day passes in which you are excluded from 
 them. I am so busy that I do not expect even now to fiU 
 my paper. While I write, my poor invalid, who is still 
 unable to amuse herself either with book or needle, sits 
 silent at my side ; which makes me, in all my letters, 
 hasten to a conclusion. My only time for study is now 
 before breakfast, and I lengthen it as much as I can by 
 early rising." He regarded it as a good effect of study, 
 that it made him an early riser, who might otherwise, he 
 said, perhaps be as much given to dozing as his readers. 
 Yet surely it must have been injurious to him to curtail 
 that natural sleep which is the best of all restoratives. 
 
 " I know not," he tells ]\Ir. Newton, " that with respect 
 to our health, we are either better or worse than when you 
 saw us. Mrs. Unwin perhaps has gained a little strength, 
 and the advancing spring, I hope, will add to it. As to 
 myself, I am in body, soul, and spirit, semper idem. Prayer 
 I know is made for me, and sometimes with great enlarge- 
 ment of heart by those who offer it ; and in this circum- 
 stance consists the only evidence I can find, that God is 
 still favourably mindful of me, and has not cast me off for 
 ever." This was in April. In the June following, he says 
 of Mrs. Unwin, " in her I cannot perceive any alteration for 
 the l)etter ; and must be satisfied, I believe, as indeed I 
 have great reason to be, if she does not alter for the worse. 
 She uses the orchard-walk daily, but always supported 
 between two, and is still unable to employ herself as for- 
 merly. But she is cheerful, seldom in much pain, and has 
 always strong confidence in the mercy and faithfulness of 
 Ood.
 
 LINES " TO MARY." 181 
 
 " As to myself, I have always the same song to sing, — 
 Well in body, but sick in spirit : sick, nigh unto death. 
 
 ' Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 God, or the sweet approach of heavenly day. 
 Or sight of cheering truth, or pardon seal'd, 
 Or joy, or hope, or Jesus' face divine ; 
 But cloud, &c.' 
 
 I could easily set my complaint to Milton's tone, and ac- 
 company him through the whole passage, on the subject of 
 a blindness more deplorable than his ; but time fails me." 
 
 He sought relief in employment, in exercise, in garden- 
 ing, in correspondence, and sometimes, it would seem, even 
 in prayer. But advancing age was telling upon his frame ; 
 and the burden which he could not support in the prime of 
 life, even with the help of such friends as Newton and Mrs. 
 Unwin, crushed him to the earth at last. It must have 
 been in the year 1793 that he wrote the last original piece 
 which his pen produced at Weston, a piece which, of its 
 kind, is unrivalled by any similar production : — 
 
 " To Maey. 
 " The twentieth year is well-nigh past 
 Since first our sky was overcast; 
 Ah, would that this might be the last ! 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
 
 I see thee daily weaker grow ; 
 
 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 
 
 My Maiy ! 
 
 Thy needles, once a shining store, 
 For my sake restless heretofore, 
 Now rust disused, and shine no more ; 
 
 My Mai-y 
 
 For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
 The same kind office for me still, 
 Thy sight now seconds not thy will ! 
 
 My Mary
 
 182 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 But well thou play'dst the housewife's part ; 
 And all thy threads, with magic art, 
 Have wouud themselves ahout this heart, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy indistinct expressions seem 
 
 Lilie language utter'd in a dream ; 
 
 Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright. 
 Are still more lovely in my sight 
 Than golden beams of orient light. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For could I \'iew nor them nor thee, 
 "What sight worth seeing could I see? 
 The sun would rise in vain for me. 
 
 My Mary! 
 
 Partakers of thy sad decline. 
 
 Thy hands their httle force resign ; 
 
 Yet gently prest, press gently mine, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, 
 That now at every step thou mov'st 
 Upheld by two ; — yet still thou lov'st. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And still to love, though prest with ill, 
 In wintry age to feel no chill, 
 With me is to be lovely still. 
 
 My Mai-y ! 
 
 But ah ! by constant heed I know. 
 How oft the sadness that I show 
 Ti'ansforms thy smiles to looks of woe. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And should my future lot be cast 
 With much resembhuice of the past, 
 Tliy worn-out heart will break at last. 
 
 My aiary!" 
 
 The autumn of this year assembled some of his warmest 
 and best friends arouud liim. Hayley, and Johnson, and
 
 DESPONDENCY. 183 
 
 Eose, all visited "Weston ; aud with the latter came Law- 
 rence, whose pencil bequeathed to us the portrait which is 
 prefixed to the present volume. If society could have 
 changed the melancholy state of things, there was enough 
 to do it. But what could alter the sadness of the mind 
 depicted in the following note ? 
 
 " Friday morning. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I am not well, but far from being so. I 
 wake almost constantly under the influence of a nervous 
 fever ; by which my spirits are affected to such a degree 
 that the oppression is almost insupportable. Since I wrote 
 last I have been plunged in deeps, unvisited I am con- 
 vinced by any human soul but mine : aud though the day 
 in its progress bears away with it some part of this melan- 
 choly, I am never cheerful because I can never hope, and I 
 am so bounded in my prospects, that to look forward to 
 another year to me seems m^adness. 
 
 " In this state of mind, how can I write 1 It is in vain 
 to attempt it. I have neither spirits for it, as I have often 
 said, nor leisure. Yet, vain as I know the attempt must 
 prove, I purpose in a few days to renew it. 
 
 " Mrs. Unwin is as weU as when I wrote last, but, like 
 myself, dejected. Dejected both on my account and on her 
 own. Unable to amuse herself either with work or reading, 
 she looks forward to a new day with despondence, weary 
 of it before it begins, and longing for the return of night. 
 
 " Thus it is with us both. If I endeavour to pray, I 
 get my answer in a double portion of misery. My petitions, 
 therefore, are reduced to three words, and those not very 
 often repeated — ' God have mercy ! ' 
 
 " Adieu ! Yours, 
 
 " Wm. Cowper." 
 
 " Imagination (says Hayley^can hardly devise any human 
 condition more truly affecting than the state of the jjoet at 
 this period. His generous and faithful guanUau, Mrs. Unwin, 
 who had pi'eserved him through seasons of the severest 
 calamity, was now, with her faculties and fortune impaired, 
 sinking fast into second childhood. The distress of heart
 
 184 UFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 that he felt in beholding the cruel change in a companion 
 so justly dear to him, conspiring with his constitutional 
 melancholy, was gradually undermining the exquisite facul- 
 ties of his mind. But, depressed as he was by these com- 
 Jilicated afflictions. Providence was far from deserting this 
 excellent man. His female relation, whose regard he had 
 cultivated as his favourite correspondent, now devoted 
 herself very nobly to the su]5erintendence of a house, whose 
 two iutercsting inhabitants were rendered, by age and 
 trouble, almost incapable of attending to the ordinary 
 oflSces of life." 
 
 Lady Hesketh arrived at Weston in November, intend- 
 ing to remain with Cowper till Febi'uary. But before this 
 period had arrived his malady reappeared, and in its worst 
 form. Among other illusions which possessed him was that 
 of a notion "that it was his duty to inflict upon himself severe 
 penance for his sins ; such, at least, is the tradition which 
 Mackintosh and Mr. Basil JVIontagu heard at Olney seven 
 years afterwards ; and this, if it were so, was a state of 
 comparative happiness to the more abiding character of 
 his madness, for in the performance of penance the 
 belief in a consequent remission of sins is implied. Six 
 days he sat ' still and silent as death,' and took no other 
 food during that time than a small piece of bread dipped 
 in wine and water. After every attempt to rouse him had 
 failed, his medical attendant suggested, as the only re- 
 maining hope, that Mrs. Unwiu should indirectly invite 
 him to go out with her, if she could be induced to do 
 this, for her state of mind now required almost as much 
 management as his. She, however, perceived the necessity 
 of making the experiment, and observing that it was a fine 
 morning, said she should like to try to walk. Cowper 
 inamediately rose, took her by the arm, — and the spell 
 which had fixed him to his chair was broken. This appears 
 to have been the last instance in which her influence over 
 him was exerted for his good." 
 
 Soon after this, Mr. .Johnson came from Norfolk, and 
 assisted Lady Hesketh in her arduous task. But when he
 
 HA.YLEY SENT FOR. 185 
 
 had departed, Mr. Grcatheed, one of his nearest friends, 
 felt it incumbent on hiui to apprize Hayley of the lament- 
 able state of the poet. He wrote as follows : — 
 
 " Newport Pagnel, April 8, 1794. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — Lady Hesketh's correspondence acquainted 
 you with the melancholy relapse of our dear friend at 
 Weston ; but I am uncertain whether you know, that in 
 the last fortniglit he has refused food of every kind, except 
 now and then a very small piece of toasted bread, dipped 
 generally in water, sometimes mixed with a little wine. 
 This, her ladyshijj informs me, was the case till last Satur- 
 day, since when he has eat a little at each family meal. 
 He persists in refusing such medicines as are indispen- 
 sable to his state of body. In such circumstances, his 
 long continuance in life cannot be expected. How de- 
 voutly to be wished is the alleviation of his danger and 
 distress ! You, dear Sir, who know so well the worth of 
 our beloved and admii-ed friend, sympathize with his 
 affliction, and deprecate his loss doubtless in no ordinary 
 degree ; you have already most eifectually expressed and 
 proved the warmth of your friendship. I cannot think 
 that anything but your society would have been sufficient, 
 during the infirmity under which his mind has long been 
 oppressed, to have supported him against the shock of Mrs. 
 Uuwin's paralytic attack. I am certain that nothing else 
 could have prevailed upon him to undertake the journey 
 to Eartham. You have succeeded where his other friends 
 knew they could not, and where they apprehended no one 
 could. How natural, therefore, nay, how reasonable, it is 
 for them to look to you, as most likely to be instrumental, 
 under the blessing of God, for relief in the present dis- 
 tressing and alarming crisis! It is, indeed, scarcely at- 
 temptable to ask any person to take such a journey, and 
 involve himself in so melancholy a scene, with an uncer- 
 tainty of the desired success : increased as the apparent 
 difficulty is, by dear Mr. Cowper's aversion to aU company, 
 and by poor Mrs. Unwin's mental and bo, lily infirmities. 
 On these accounts Lady Hesketh dares not ask it of you, 
 rejoiced as she would be at your arrival. Am not I, dear
 
 186 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 sir, a very presumptuous person, who, in the face of all 
 opposition, clave do this ? I am emboldened by those two 
 powerful supporters, conscience and experience. Was I at 
 Eartham, I would certainly undertake the labour I presume 
 to recommend, for the bare possibility of restoring Mr. 
 Cowper to himself, to his friends, to the public, and to 
 God." 
 
 Hayley immediately repaired to "Weston, and Lady 
 Hesketh seized the opportunity to quit her post for a few 
 hours, in order to have an inter-view with Dr. Willis, the 
 highest medical authority at that time in cases of that 
 character. Dr. W. prescribed for the poet, and afterwards 
 visited him at Weston ; but medicine had no power over a 
 disease so long dominant. 
 
 It was on the 23d of April, 1794, in one of those melan- 
 choly mornings, when his kind and affectionate relative, 
 Lady Hesketh, and Hayley, were watching together over 
 this dejected sufferer, that a letter from Lord Spencer 
 arrived at Weston, to announce the intended grant of a 
 pension from his majesty to Cowper of 300^. per annum, 
 rendered payable to his friend Mr. Rose, as the trustee of 
 Cowper. This intelligence produced in the friends of the 
 poet very lively emotions of delight, yet blended with pain 
 almost as powerful ; for it was painful, in no trifling de- 
 gree, to reflect that these desirable smiles of good fortune 
 could not impart even a faint glimmering of joy to the 
 dejected poet. 
 
 From the time when Hayley left his unhappy friend at 
 Weston, in the spring of the year 1794, he remained there, 
 under the tender vigilance of Lady Hesketh, till the latter 
 end of July 1 795 — a long season of the darkest depression ! 
 in which the best medical advice and the influence of time 
 appeared equally unable to hghten that afflictive burden 
 which pressed incessantly on his spirits. 
 
 It was iinder these circumstances that ]\Ir. Johnson, 
 with a disinterestedness and affection that must ever 
 endear him to the admirers of Cowper, determined, with 
 Lady Hesketh's concurrence, to remove the poet and his 
 afflicted companion into Norfolk. In adopting this plan 
 he did not contemplate more than a year's absence from
 
 COWPER LEAVES WESTON. 187 
 
 Weston. But what was intended to be only temporary, 
 proved, in the sei|uel, to be a final removal. 
 
 Few events could have been more painful to Cowi3er 
 than a separation from his beloved Weston. Every object 
 was familiar to his eye, and had long engaged the affections 
 of his heart. Its beautiful scenery had been traced with 
 all the minuteness of description, and the glow of poetic 
 fancy. The slow- win ding Ouse, " bashful, yet impatient to 
 be seen," was henceforth to glide "in its sinuous course" 
 unperccived. The spacious meads, the lengthened colon- 
 nade, the proud alcove, and the sound of the sweet village 
 bells, — these memorials of past happy days were to be 
 seen and heard no more. All have felt the pang excited 
 by the separation or loss of friends ; but who has not also 
 experienced that even trees have tongues, and that every 
 object in nature knows how to plead its empire over the 
 heart ? 
 
 What Cowper's sensations were on this occasion, may 
 be collected from the following little incident. 
 
 On the morning of his departure from Weston, he 
 wrote the following lines in pencil on the back of the 
 shutter in his bedroom : — 
 
 "Farewell, dear scenes, for ever closed to me ! 
 Oil, for what sorrows must I now exchange you! " 
 
 These lines have been carefully preserved as the expres- 
 sive memorial of his feelings on leaving Weston. 
 
 On Tuesday, the 28th of July, 1795, Cowper and Mrs. 
 Unwin removed, under the care and guidance of INIr. John- 
 son, from Weston to N orth-Tuddenham, in Norfolk, by a 
 journey of three days, passing through Cambridge without 
 stopping there. In the evening of the first day they rested 
 at the village of Eaton, near St. Neot's. Cowper walked 
 with his young kinsman in the churchyard by moonlight, 
 and spoke with much composure on the subject of Thom- 
 son's jSeasoiis, and the circumstances under which they 
 were probably written. This conversation was almost his 
 last glimmering of cheerfulness. 
 
 At North-Tuddenham the travellers were accommodated 
 with a commodious, untenanted parsonage-house, by the
 
 188 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWrER. 
 
 kindness of the Rev. Leonard Shelford. Here ttey resided 
 till the 19th of August. It was the considerate intention 
 of Mr. Johnson not to remove them immediately to his 
 own house, in the town of East Dereham, lest the situation 
 in a market-place should be distressing to the tender spirits 
 of Cowper. 
 
 In their new temporary residence they were received 
 by Miss Johnson and Miss Perowne, whose gentle and 
 sympathising spirit peculiarly qualified them to discharge 
 so delicate an of&ce, and to alleviate the sufferings of the 
 dejected poet. 
 
 Severe as his depressive malady appeared at this period, 
 he was still able to bear considerable exercise, and,, before 
 he left Tuddenham, he walked with Mr. Johnson to the 
 neighboui'ing village of Mattishall, on a visit to his cousin, 
 Mrs. Bodham. On surveying his own portrait, by Abbot, 
 in the house of that lady, he clasped his hands in a 
 paroxysm of pain, and uttered a vehement wish, that his 
 present sensations might be such as they were when that 
 picture was painted. 
 
 In August, 1795, Mr. Johnson conducted his two invalids 
 to Mundesley, a village on the Norfolk coast, in the hope 
 that a situation by the sea- side might prove salutary and 
 amusing to Cowper. They continued to reside there tiU 
 October, but without any apparent benefit to the health of 
 the interesting sufferer. 
 
 He had long relinquished epistolary intercourse with 
 his most intimate friends, but his tender solicitude to hear 
 some tidings of his favourite Weston induced him, in Sep- 
 tember, to write a letter to Mr. Buchanan. It shows the 
 severity of his depression, but proves, also, that transient 
 gleams of pleasure could occasionally break through the 
 brooding darkness of melancholy. , 
 
 He begins with a poetical quotation : — 
 
 " To interpose a little ease, 
 Let my frail thoughts daily with false surmise ! " 
 
 " I will foi'get, for a moment, that to whomsoever I may 
 address myself, a letter from me can no otherwise be wel- 
 come than as a curiosity. To you, sir, I address this ; urged
 
 IN NORFOLK. 189 
 
 to it by extreme penury of employment, and the desire 1 
 feel to learn something of what is doing, and has been done, 
 at Weston (my beloved Weston !), since I left it. 
 
 " The coldness of these blasts, even in the hottest days, 
 has been such, that, added to the irritation of the salt- 
 spray with which they arc always charged, they have occa- 
 sioned me an inflammation in the eyelids, which threatened 
 a few days since to confine me entirely, but, by absenting 
 myself as much as possible from the beach, and guarding 
 my face with an umbrella, that inconvenience is in some 
 degree abated. My chamber commands a very near view 
 of the ocean, and the ships at high water approach the 
 coast so closely, tliat a man furnished with better eyes 
 than mine might, I doubt not, discern the sailors from the 
 window. No situation, at least when the weather is clear 
 and bright, can be pleasanter ; which you will easily credit, , 
 when I add, that it imparts something a little resembling 
 pleasure even to me. Gratify me with news of Weston ! If 
 Mr. Gregson and yovir neighbours the Courtenays are 
 there, mention me to them in svich terms as you see good. 
 Tell me if my poor birds are living. I never see the herbs 
 I used to give them, without a recollection of them, and 
 sometimes am reaciy to gather them, forgetting that I am 
 not at home. Pardon this intrusion ! 
 
 " Mrs. Unwin continues much as usual. 
 
 '' Mundeslcy, Sept. 5, 1795." 
 
 Mr. Buchanan endeavoured, with great tenderness and 
 ingenviity, to allure his dejected friend to prolong a corre- 
 spondence that seemed to promise some little alleviation 
 to his melancholy ; but his distressing malady baffled all 
 the various expedients that could be devised to counteract 
 its overwhelming influence. 
 
 Much hope was entertained from air and exei'cise, with 
 a frequent change of scene. In September Mr. Johnson 
 conducted his kinsman (to the promotion of whose re- 
 covery he devoted his most unwearied efforts) to take a 
 survey of Dunham Lodge, a seat at that time vacant ; it is 
 situated on high ground, in a park, about four miles from 
 SwafFliam. Cowper spoke of it as a house rather too spacious
 
 190 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 for liim, yet such as he was not unwilling to inhabit ; a 
 remark which induced Mr. Johnson, at a subsequent period, 
 to become the tenant of this mansion, as a scene more 
 eligible for Cowper than the town of Dereham. This town 
 they also surveyed in their excursion ; and, after passing a 
 night there, returned to Mundesley, where they remained 
 till the seventh of October : they then removed to Dereham ; 
 but left it in the course of a month for Dunham Lodge, 
 which now became their settled residence. 
 
 The spirits of Cowper were not sufficiently revived to 
 allow him to resume either his pen or his books ; but the 
 kindness of Mr. Johnson continued to furnish him with in- 
 exhaustible amusement, by reading to him almost inces- 
 santly ; and although he was not led to converse on what 
 he heard, yet it occupied his attention, and so prevented 
 his afflicted mind from preying on itself. 
 
 In April, 1796, Mrs. Unwin, whose infirmities continued 
 to engage the tender attention of Cowper, even in his 
 darkest periods of depression, received a visit from her 
 daughter and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Powley. On their 
 departure, Mr. Johnson assumed the office which ISIrs. 
 Powley had tenderly performed for her venerable parent, 
 and regularly read a chapter in the Bible every morning to 
 Mrs. Unwin before she rose. It was the invariable custom 
 of Cowper to visit his poor old friend the moment he had 
 finished his breakfast, and to remain in her apartment 
 while the chapter was read. 
 
 In June the pressure of his melancholy appeared in 
 some degree alleviated, for, on Mr. Johnson's receiving the 
 edition of Pope's Homer, published by AYakefield, Cowper 
 eagerly seized the book, and began to read the notes to 
 himself with \'isible interest. They awakened his atten- 
 tion to his own version of Homer. In August he deh- 
 berately engaged in a revisal of the whole, and for some 
 time produced almost sixty new lines a day. 
 
 This mental occupation animated all his intimate friends 
 with a most lively hope of his progressive recovery. But 
 autumn repressed the hope that summer had excited. 
 
 In September the family removed from Dunham Lodge 
 to try again the influence of the sea-side, in their favourite
 
 DEATH OF MRS. UNAVTN. 191 
 
 village of Mundesley. Here Cowper walked frequently by 
 the sea ; but no apparent benefit arose, no relief from 
 the incessant pressure of melancholy. He had relin- 
 quished his Homer again, and could not yet be induced 
 to resume it. 
 
 Towards the end of October the whole party retired 
 from the coast to the house of IMr. Johnson, in Dereham ; a 
 house now chosen for their winter residence, as Dunham 
 Lodge appeared to them too dreary. 
 
 The life of ]\Irs. Unwin was drawing towards a close : 
 the powers of nature were gradually exhausted, and on the 
 seventeenth of December she ended a troubled existence, 
 distinguished by a friendship which will never be forgotten. 
 Her death Avas calm and tranquil. Cowper saw her about 
 half an hour before the moment of her death, which took 
 place about one o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
 On the morning of that day he said to the servant who 
 opened the window of his chamber, " Sally, is there life 
 above-stairs ?" A proof of his incessant attention to the 
 sufferings of his aged friend, although he had long appeared 
 almost totally absorbed in his own. 
 
 In the dusk of the evening he attended Mr. Johnson 
 to survey the corpse ; and after looking at it a few moments 
 he started suddenly away, with a vehement but unfinished 
 exclamation of passionate sorrow. He spoke of her no 
 more. 
 
 She was buried by torch-light, on the twenty-third of 
 December, in the north aisle of Dereham Church ; where 
 two of her friends raised a marble tablet to her memory 
 with the following inscription : — 
 
 IN MEMOKY OF MARY, 
 
 WIDOW OF THE EEV. MORLEY UNWIN, 
 
 AND 
 
 MOTHER OF THE EEV. -mLLIAM CAWTHORN UNWIN, 
 
 BOKN AT ELY, 1724, 
 
 BURIED IN THIS CHURCH, 179G.
 
 192 LIFE OF WILLIAM COAVPER. 
 
 Trusting in God, with all lier heart and mind, 
 
 This woman prov'd magnanimously kind; 
 
 Endui''d affliction's desolating hail, 
 
 And watch'd a poet thro' misfortune's vale. 
 
 Her spotless drist, angelic guards, defend ! 
 
 It is the dust of Unwin, Cowper's friend ! 
 
 That single title in itself is fame, 
 
 For all who read his verse revere her name. 
 
 It might have been anticipated that the death of Mrs. 
 Unwin, in Cowper's enfeebled state, would have proved too 
 severe a shock to his agitated nerves. But it is mercifully 
 ordained that, while declining years incapacitate us for 
 trials, they, at the same time, weaken the sensibility to 
 sufteriug, and thereby render us less accessible to the in- 
 fluence of sorrow. It may be regarded as an instance of 
 providential mercy to this afflicted poet, that his aged 
 friend, whose life he had so long considered as essential to 
 his own, was taken from him at a time when the pressure 
 of his malady, a perpetual low fever, both of body and 
 mind, had, in a great degree, diminished the native energy 
 of his faculties and affections. 
 
 Owing to these causes, Covrper was so far preserved in 
 this season of trial, that, instead of mourning the loss of a 
 person in whose life he had seemed to hve, all perception 
 of that loss was mercifully taken from him ; and, from the 
 moment when he hurried away from the inanimate object 
 of his filial attachment, he appeared to have no memory of 
 her having existed, for he never asked a question concern- 
 ing her funeral, nor ever mentioned her name. 
 
 Towards the summer of 1797 his bodily health appeared 
 to improve, but not to such a degree as to restore any 
 comfortable activity to his mind. In June he wrote a 
 brief letter to Hayley, but such as too forcibly expressed 
 the cruelty of his distemper. 
 
 The process of digestion never passed regularly in his 
 frame during the years that he resided in Norfolk. Medicine 
 appeared to have little or no influence on his complaint, 
 and his aversion at the sight of it was extreme. 
 
 From asses' itiilk, of whicli he began a course on the 
 twenty-first of June in this year, he gained a consider-
 
 GRADUAL DECLINE, 193 
 
 able acquisition of bodily strength, and was enabled to bear 
 an airing in an open carriage, before breakfast, with Mr, 
 Johnson. 
 
 A depression of mind, which suspended the studies of a 
 ■writer so eminently endeared to the public, was considered 
 by men of piety and learning as a national misfortune, and 
 several individuals of this description, though personally 
 unknown to Cowper, wrote to him in the benevolent hope 
 that expressions of friendly praise, from persons who could 
 be influenced only by the most laudable mo1>ives in bestow- 
 ing it, might re-animate his dejected spirit. Among these 
 might be enumerated Dr. Watson, the Bishop of LlandaflF, 
 who kindly addressed him in the language of encourage- 
 ment and of soothing consolation ; but the pressure of his 
 malady had now made him utterly deaf to the most 
 honourable praise. 
 
 He had long discontinued the revisal of his Homer, 
 when his kinsman, dreading the effect of the cessation of 
 bodily exercise upon his mind during a long winter, resolved, 
 if possible, to engage him in the revisal of this work. One 
 moi'niug, therefoi'e, after breakfast, in the month of Sep- 
 tember, he placed the commentators on the table, one by 
 one ; namely, Villoison, Barnes, and Clarke, opening them 
 all, together with the poet's translation, at the place where 
 he had left off a twelvemonth before, but talking with him, 
 as he paced the room, upon a very different subject, namely, 
 the impossibility of the things befalling him which his 
 imagination had represented ; when, as his companion had 
 wished, he said to him, " And are you sure that I shall 
 be here till the book you are reading is finished ?" 
 " Quite sure," replied his kinsman ; " and that you wiU also 
 be here to complete the revisal of your Homer," pointing to 
 the books, " if you will resume it to-day." As he repeated 
 these words he left the room, rejoicing in the well-knovm 
 token of their having sunk into the poet's mind, namely, 
 his seating himself on the sofix, taking up one of the books, 
 and saying in a low and plaintive voice, " I may as well do 
 this, for I can do nothing else." 
 
 In this labour he persevered, oppressed as he was by 
 indisposition, till ISIarch 1799, On Friday evening, the 
 

 
 194 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPEK. 
 
 eighth of that month, he completed his revisal of the 
 Odyssey, and next morning wrote part of a new preface. 
 
 To watch over the disordered health of afflicted genius, 
 and to lead a powerful, but oppressed, spirit by gentle 
 encouragement, to exert itself in salutary occupation, is an 
 office that requires a very rare union of tenderness, intelh- 
 gence, and fortitude. To contemplate and minister to a 
 great mind, in a state that borders on mental desolation, is 
 like surveying, in the midst of a desert, the tottering ruins 
 of palaces and temples, where the faculties of the spectator 
 are almost absorbed in wonder and regret, and where every 
 step is taken with awful apiDrehension. 
 
 Hayley, in alluding to Mr. Johnson's kind and affec- 
 tionate offices, at this period, bears the following honour- 
 able testimony to his merits, which we are haj^py in 
 transcribing : — " It seemed as if Providence had expressly 
 formed the young kinsman of Cowper to prove exactly such 
 a guardian to his declining years as the peculiar exigencies 
 of his situation required. I never saw the human being 
 that could, I think, have sustained the delicate and arduous 
 office (in which the inexhaustible virtues of Mr. Johnson 
 persevered to the last) through a period so long, vdth an 
 equal portion of unvaried tenderness and unshaken fidelity. 
 A man who wanted sensibility would have renounced the 
 duty ; and a man endowed with a particle too much of that 
 valuable, though perilous, quality, must have felt his own 
 health vitterly undermined, by an excess of sympathy with 
 the sufferings perpetually in his sight. Mr. Johnson has 
 completely discharged, perhaps, the most trj'ing of human 
 duties ; and I trust he will forgive me for this public decla- 
 ration, that, in his mode of discharging it, he has merited 
 the most cordial esteem from all who love the memory of 
 Cowi^er. Even a stranger may consider it as a strong proof 
 of his tender dexterity in soothing and guiding the afiiicted 
 poet, that he was able to engage him steadily to pursue and 
 finish the revisal and correction of his Homer, during a 
 long period of bodily and mental sufferings, when his 
 troubled mind recoiled from all intercourse with his most 
 intimate friends, and laboured under a morbid abhorrence 
 of all cheerful exertion."
 
 GRADUAL DECLINE. 195 
 
 In the summer of 1798, IVlr. Johnson was induced to 
 vary his plan of remaining for some months in the marine 
 village of Mundeslcy, and thought it more eligible to make 
 fi-eiiueut visits from Dereham to the coast, passing a week at 
 a time by the seaside. 
 
 Cowpcr, ill his poem on Retirement, seems to inform us 
 what his own sentiments were, in a season of health, con- 
 cerning the regimen most proper for melancholy : — 
 
 " Virtuous and faithful Heberclen, whose skill 
 Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil, 
 Gives melancholy up to Nature's care, 
 And sends the patient into pvirer air." 
 
 The frequent change of place, and the magnificence of 
 marine scenery, produced at times a little relief to his de- 
 pressed spirits. On the seventh of June, 1798, he surveyed 
 the light-house at Happisburgh, and expressed some plea- 
 sure on beholding, through a telescope, several ships at a 
 distance, ifet, in his usual walk with his companion by the 
 sea-side, he exemplified, but too forcibly, his o\\ti affecting 
 description of melancholy silence : — 
 
 " That silent tongue 
 Could give ad\4ce, could censure or commend, 
 Or charm the sorrows of a drooping fiiond. 
 Eenounced alike its otfice and its sport, 
 Its brisker and its graver strains fall short: 
 Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway, 
 And like a summer brook are jiass'd away." 
 
 On the twenty-fourth of July, Cowper had the honour 
 of a visit from the Dowager Lady Spencer ; and it was 
 rather remarkable, that on the very morning she called 
 upon him he had begun his revisal of the OJ>/ssey, which 
 was originally inscribed to her. Such an incident in a 
 hapjjior season would have produced a very enlivening 
 effect on his spirits ; but, in his present state, it had not 
 even the power to lead him into any free conversation with 
 his distinguished visitor. 
 
 A few days after this he wrote the following brief but 
 mournful letter to Mr. Newton : —
 
 196 LITE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 " July 29, 1798. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — Few letters have passed between us, and I 
 was never so incapable of writing as now, nor ever so 
 destitute of a subject. It is long since I received your 
 last, to which. I have as yet retiu-ned no answer ; nor is it 
 possible that, though I write, I should even now reply to 
 it. It contained, I remember, many kind expressions, 
 which would have encouraged, perhaps, and consoled any 
 other than myself ; but I was, even then, out of the reach 
 of all such favourable impressions, and am at present less 
 susceptible of them than at any time since I saw you last. 
 I once little thought to see such days as these, for almost 
 in the moment when they found me, there was not a man 
 in the world who seemed to himself to have less reason to 
 expect them. This you know ; and what can I say of my- 
 self that you do not know ? 
 
 "I will only add, therefore, that we are going to the 
 sea-side to-morrow, where we are to stay a fortnight ; at 
 the end of which time may I expect to find a letter from 
 you directed to me at Dereham ? 
 
 " I remain, in the meantime, 
 " Yours, as usual, 
 
 "Wm. CoWPER." 
 
 The only amusement that he appeared to admit with- 
 out reluctance was the reading of Mr. Johnson, who, 
 having exhausted a series of works of fiction, at this period 
 began reading to the poet his own works. To these he 
 listened in silence, and heard all his poems recited in 
 order, till the reader arrived at the history of John Gilpin, 
 which he begged not to hear. Mr. Johnson proceeded to 
 his manuscript poems ; to these he wilhugly listened, but 
 made not a single remark on any. 
 
 In October, 1798, the pressure of his melancholy seemed 
 to be mitigated in some httle degree, for he exerted himself 
 so far as to write the following letter, without soUcitation, 
 to Lady Hesketh : — 
 
 " Dear Cousin, — You describe delightful scenes, but you 
 describe them to one, who, if he even saw them, could
 
 GRADUAL DECLINE. 197 
 
 receive no delight from them : who has a faint recollection, 
 and so faint, as to be like an almost forgotten dream, that 
 once he was susceptible of pleasure from such causes. The 
 country that you have had in prospect has been always 
 famed for its beauties ; but the wretch who can derive no 
 gratification from a view of nature, even under the disad- 
 vantage of her most ordinary dress, will have no eyes to 
 admire her in any. 
 
 " In one day, in one minute, I should rather have said, 
 she became a universal blank to me, and though from a 
 diflferent cause, yet with an effect as difficult to remove as 
 blindness itself. In this country, if there are not moun- 
 tains, there are hills ; if not broad and deep rivers, yet, 
 such as are sufficient to embellish a prospect : and an 
 object still more magnificent than any river, the ocean 
 itself, is almost immediately under the window. Why is 
 scenery like this, I had almost said, why is the very scene, 
 which many years since I could not contemplate without 
 rapture, now become, at the best, an insipid wilderness to 
 me ? It neighbours nearly, and as nearly resembles the 
 scenery of Catfield ; but with what diffei'ent perceptions 
 does it present me ! The reason is obvious. My state of 
 mind is a medium through which the beauties of Paradise 
 itself could not be communicated with any effect but a 
 painful one. 
 
 " There is a wide interval between us, which it would 
 be far easier for you than for me to pass. Yet I should in 
 vain invite you. "We shall meet no more. I know not 
 what Mr. Johnson said of me in the long letter he ad- 
 dressed to you yesterday, but nothing, I am sure, that 
 could make such an event seem probable. 
 
 " I remain, as usual, dear cousin, 
 " Yours, 
 
 " Wm. Cowper. 
 
 " Mundesley, October 13, 1798." 
 
 On his return from Mundesley to Dereham, in an evening 
 towards the end of October, Cowper. with Miss Perowne and 
 Mr. .lohnson, was overturned in a post-chaise : he disco- 
 vered no terror on the occasion, and escaped without injury
 
 1£!(8 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 from the accident. In December he received a visit from 
 his highly esteemed friend, Sir John Throckmorton, but his 
 malady was at that time so oppressive that it rendered him 
 almost insensible to the kind solicitude of friendship. 
 
 He still continued to exercise his mental powers, and, 
 upon his finishing the revisal of his Homer, in March 1799, 
 his kinsman endeavoured in the gentlest manner to lead 
 him into new hterary occupation. 
 
 For this purpose, on the eleventh of March, he laid 
 before him the paper containing the commencement of his 
 poem on The Four Ages. Cowper altered a few lines ; he 
 also added a few, but soon observed to his kind attendant — 
 " that it was too great a work for him to attempt in his 
 present situation." 
 
 At supper Mr. Johnson suggested to him several hterary 
 projects that he might execute more easily. He replied — 
 " that he had j iist thought of six Latin verses, and if he 
 could do anything it must be in pursuing that composition." 
 The next morning he wrote the six verses he had mentioned, 
 and subsequently added the remainder, entitling the poem, 
 Monies Glaciales. 
 
 It proved a versification of a circumstance recorded in 
 a newspaper, which had been read to him a few weeks 
 before, without his appearing to notice it. This jjoem he 
 translated into EngHsh verse, on the nineteenth of March, 
 to oblige Miss Perowne. Both the original and the transla- 
 tion appear in his Poems. 
 
 On tlie twentieth of March he wrote the stanzas entitled 
 The Cast-away, founded on an anecdote in Anson's Voyage 
 which his memory suggested to him, although he had not 
 looked into the book for many years. 
 
 As this poem is the last original production from the 
 pen of Cowper, we shall introduce it here, persuaded that 
 it will be read with an interest proportioned to the extra- 
 ordinary pathos of the subject, and the still more extra- 
 ordinary powers of the poet, whose lyre could sound so 
 forcibly, unsilenced by the gloom of the darkest distemper, 
 which was now conducting him, by slow gradations, to the 
 shadow of death : —
 
 GRADUAL DECLINE. 199 
 
 The Cast-away. 
 
 " Obscurest night involved the sky, 
 
 The Atlantic billows roar'd, 
 
 Wlien such a destiii'J wretch as I, 
 
 Wash'd headlong from on board, 
 
 Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 
 
 His floating home for ever left. 
 
 No braver chief could Albion boast, 
 Than he, with whom he went. 
 
 Nor ever ship left Albion's coast, 
 With wanner -nTshes sent. 
 
 He loved tliem both, but both in vain, 
 
 Nor him beheld nor her again. 
 
 Not long beneath the whelming brine, 
 
 Expert to swim, he lay ; 
 Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 
 
 ,0r courage die away ; 
 But waged with death a lasting strife, 
 Sujjported by despair of life. 
 
 He shouted : nor his friends had fail'd 
 To check the vessel's coui-se. 
 
 But so the furious blast prevail'd, 
 Thiit, jjitiless perforce, 
 
 They left their outcast mate behind. 
 
 And scudded stiU before the wind. 
 
 Some succour yet they could afford, 
 
 And such as storms allow. 
 The cask, the coop, the floated cord, 
 
 Delay'd not to bestow ; 
 But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, 
 "NVhate'er they gave, should visit more. 
 
 Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he 
 Their haste himself condemn. 
 
 Aware tliat flight, in such a sea, 
 Alone could rescue them ; 
 
 Yet bitter felt it still to die 
 
 Deserted, and his friends so nigli.
 
 200 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 He long survives, who lives an hour 
 
 In ocean, self-npheld : 
 And so long he, with unspent power, 
 
 His destiny repell'd ; 
 And ever, as the minutes flew, 
 Entreated helji, or cried — ' Adieu ! ' 
 
 At length, his transient respite past. 
 
 His comrades, who hefore 
 Had heard his voice in every blast, 
 
 Could catch the sound no more. 
 For then, by toil subdixed, he drank 
 The stifling wave, and tlien he sank. 
 
 No poet wept him : but the page 
 
 Of narrative sincere. 
 That tells his name, his worth, his age, 
 
 Is wet with Anson's tear. 
 And tears by bards or heroes shed, 
 AHke immortahiie the dead. 
 
 I therefore purpose not, nor di'eam, 
 
 Descanting on his fate. 
 To give the melancholy theme 
 
 A more enduring date : 
 But misery still delights to trace 
 Its semblance in another's case. 
 
 No voice dirine the storm allay' d, 
 
 No light propitious shone ; 
 When, snatch'd from all effectual aid, 
 
 We perish'd, each alone : 
 But I beneath a rougher sea. 
 And whelm'd in deexier gulphs than he." 
 
 In August he translated this i)oem into Latin verse. In 
 October he went with Miss Perowne and Mr. Johnson to 
 survey a larger house in Dereham, which he preferred to 
 their present residence, and in which the family were 
 settled in the following December. 
 
 His latest letter to Mr. Newton appears to have been 
 written in April of this year. It sadly concurs with the 
 conclusion of the preceding verses : —
 
 GRADUAL DECLINE. 201 
 
 " Dereham, April 11, 1799. 
 
 " Deal- Sir, — Your last letter, so long unanswered, may, 
 and indeed must, have proved sufficiently that my state of 
 mind is not now more favourable to the purpose of writing 
 than it was when I received it ; for had any alteration in 
 that respect taken place, I should certainly have acknow- 
 ledged it long since, or at whatsoever time the change had 
 happened, and should not have waited for the present call 
 upon me to return you my thanks at the same time for 
 the letter, and for the book which you have been so kind 
 as to send me. I\Ir. Johnson has read it to me. If it 
 afforded me any amusement, or suggested to me any re- 
 flections, they were only such as served to embitter, if 
 possible, still more the present moment, by a sad retrospect 
 of those days when I thought mj'self secure of an eternity 
 to be spent with the spirits of such men as he whose life 
 afforded the subject of it. But I was Uttle aware of what 
 I had to expect, and that a storm was at hand which in one 
 terrible moment would darken, and in another, still more 
 terrible, blot out, that prospect for ever. 
 
 " Adieu, dear sir, whom in those days I called dear 
 friend, with feelings that justified the appellation. 
 
 " I remain, yours, 
 
 "Wm. COWPER." 
 
 Though his corporeal strength was now evidently de- 
 clining, the urgent persuasion of ]SIr. Johnson induced him 
 to amuse his mind with frequent composition. Between 
 August and December he wrote various translations from 
 various Latin and Greek epigrams. In his new residence, 
 he amused himself with translating a few of Gay's fables 
 into Latin verse. The fable which he used to recite when 
 a child — The Hare and many Friends — became one of his 
 latest amusements. 
 
 These Latin fables were all written in January 1800. 
 Towards the end of that month, liaylcy requested him to 
 new-model a passage in his Homer, relating to the curious 
 monument of ancient sculpture, so gracefully described by 
 Homer, called tlic Cretan Dance. This being the last effort 
 of his pen, we here insert it : —
 
 202 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 " To these the glorious artist added next 
 A varied dance, resembling that of old 
 In Crete's broad isle, by Dtedalus, compos'd 
 For bright-hair'd Ariadne. There the youths 
 And youth-alluring maidens, hand in hand, 
 Danc'd jocund, ev'ry maiden neat attir'd 
 In finest hnen, and the youths in vests 
 Well-woven, glossy as the glaze of oil. 
 These all wore garlands, and bright falchions those 
 Of bumish'd gold, in silver trappings hung ; — 
 They, with well-tutor"d step, now, nimbly ran 
 Tlie circle, swift, as when, before his wheel 
 Seated, the potter t\virls it with both hands 
 For trial of its speed ; now, crossing quick, 
 They pass'd at once into each other's place, 
 A circling crowd survey'd the lovely dance, 
 Deliglited ; two, the leading pair, tlieir head 
 With graceful inclination boAving oft, 
 Pass'd swift between them, and began the song." 
 
 On the very day that this endearing mark of his kind- 
 ness reached Hayley, a dropsical appearance in Co^vper's 
 legs induced Mr. Johnson to have recourse to fresh medical 
 assistance. Cowper was with gi-eat difficulty persuaded to 
 take the remedies prescribed, and to try the exercise of a 
 post-chaise, an exercise which he could not bear beyond 
 the twenty-second of February. 
 
 In March, when his decline became more and more 
 visible, he was visited by Mr. Rose. He hardly expressed 
 any pleasure on the arrival of a friend whom he had so 
 long and so tenderly regarded, yet he showed evident signs 
 of regret at his departure, on the sixth of April. 
 
 The illness and impending death of his son, pre- 
 cluded Hayley from sharing with Mr. Rose in these last 
 marks of affectionate attention towards the man, whose 
 genius and virtues they had once contemi)lated together, 
 with mutual veneration and delight ; whose approaching 
 dissolution they felt, not only as an irreparable loss to 
 themselves, but as a national misfortune. On the nine- 
 teenth of April, the weakness of this truly pitiable sufferer 
 had so much increased, that Mr. Johnson apprehended 
 his death to be near. Adverting, therefore, to the afflic-
 
 HIS DEATH. 203 
 
 tiou, as well of body as of mind, which his beloved inmate 
 was then enduring, he ventured to speak of his approach- 
 ing dissolution as the signal of his deliverance from both 
 these miseries. After a pause of a few moments, which 
 was less interrupted by the objections of liis despond- 
 ing relative than he had dared to ho[)e, he proceeded to 
 an observation more consolatory still ; namely, that, in 
 the world to which he was hastening, a merciful Redeemer 
 had prepared unspeakable happiness for all his children 
 — and therefore for him. To the first part of this sentence 
 he had listened with composure, but the concluding words 
 were no sooner uttered, than his jiassionately-e.xpressed 
 entreaties, that his companion would desist from any 
 further observations of a similar kind, clearly proved that, 
 though it was on the eve of being invested mth angelic 
 light, the darkness of delusion still veiled his spirit. 
 
 On Sunday, the twentieth, he seemed a little revived. 
 On ]\Iouday he appeared dying, but recovered so much 
 as to eat a slight dinner. 
 
 Tuesday and Wednesday he grew apparently weaker 
 every hour. 
 
 On Thursday he sat up as usual in the evening. 
 In the course of the night, when exceedingly exhausted, 
 Miss Perowne offered him some refreshment. He rejected 
 it with these words, the last that he was heard to utter, 
 " ^V'hat can it signify 1" 
 
 Dr. Johnson closes the affecting account in the follow- 
 ing words. 
 
 " At five in the morning of Friday 25th, a deadly change 
 in his features was observed to take place. He remained 
 in an insensible state from that time till about five minutes 
 before five in the aftei-nooii, when he ceased to breathe. 
 And in so mild and gentle a mannei' did his spirit take its 
 flight, that though the writer of this Memoir, his medical 
 attendant IMr. AVoods, and tlu'ee other persons, were stand- 
 ing at the foot and "side of the bed, with their eyes fixed 
 upon his dying countenance, the precise moment of his 
 (lL'2)arture was unobserved by any." 
 
 From this mournful period, till the features of his 
 tleceascd friend were closed from his view, the expression
 
 204 LIFE OF "WTLLIAM COWPER. 
 
 whicli the kinsman of Cowper observed in them, and which 
 he was affectionately delighted to suppose " an index of 
 the last thoughts and enjoyments of his soul, in its 
 gradual escape from the depths of despondence, was that 
 of calmness and composure, mingled, as it were, with holy 
 surprise." 
 
 He was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel, in the church 
 of East Dereham, on Saturday, May 2d, 1800, attended by 
 several of his relations. And seldom, indeed, as Southey 
 has remarked, could the beautiful language of our Burial 
 Service be more fittingly employed, than when the mourners 
 committed the dust of CowiDcr to the grave, " in sure and 
 certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our 
 Lord Jesus Christ," and in thanksgiving to Almighty God, 
 " for that it had pleased him to deliver this our brother out 
 of the miseries of this sinful world." 
 
 He died intestate. His affectionate relative, Lady Hes- 
 keth, fulfilled the office of his administratrix, and raised a 
 marble tablet to his memory, with the following inscription 
 from the pen of Hayley : — 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER, Esq. 
 
 BORN IN HERTFORDSHIRE, 
 1731, 
 BURIED IN THIS CHURCH. 
 
 Ye who, with warmth, the puLhc triumph feel 
 
 Of talents, dignified by sacred zeal. 
 
 Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just, 
 
 Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust ! 
 
 England, exulting in his spotless fame, 
 
 Ranks with her dearest sous his favourite name. 
 
 Sense, fancy, vnt, suffice not all to raise 
 
 So clear a title to Affection's praise; 
 
 His highest bonoiu's to the heart belong; 
 
 His virtues form'd tlie magic of his song.
 
 PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. 205 
 
 His biographers give the following description of his 
 person, manners, and external characteristics : — 
 
 " The person and mind of Cowper seem to have been 
 formed with equal kindness by Nature, and it may be 
 questioned if she ever bestowed on any man, with a 
 fonder prodigality, all the requisites to conciliate affection 
 and to inspire respect. 
 
 " He is said to have been handsome in his youth. His 
 features strongly expressed the powers of his mind and all 
 the sensibility of his heart ; and even in his declining 
 years time seemed to have spared much of its ravages, 
 though his mind was harassed by unceasing nervous ex- 
 citement. 
 
 " He was of a middle stature, rather strong than deli- 
 cate in the form of his limbs ; the colour of his hair was a 
 light brown, that of his eyes a bluish grey, and his com- 
 plexion ruddy. In his dress he was neat, but not finical ; 
 in his diet temperate, and not dainty. 
 
 " He had an air of pensive reserve in his deportment, 
 and his extreme shyness sometimes produced in his man- 
 ners an indescribable mixture of awkwardness and dignity; 
 but no person could be more truly graceful, when he 
 was in perfect health, and perfectly pleased with his society. 
 Towards women, in particular, his behaviour and conver- 
 sation were delicate and fascinating in the highest degi'ee. 
 
 " There was a simplicity of manner and character in 
 Cowper which always charms, and is often the attribute of 
 real genius. He was singularly calculated to excite emotions 
 of esteem and love by those qualities that win confidence 
 and inspire sympathy. In friendship he was uniformly 
 faithful ; and, if the events of life had not disappointed 
 his fondest hopes, no man would have been more emi- 
 nently adapted for the endearments of domestic life. 
 
 " His daily habits of study and exercise are so minutely 
 and agreeably delineated in his letters, that they present a 
 perfect portrait of his domestic character. 
 
 " His voice conspired with his features to announce to 
 all who saw and heard him the extreme sensibility of his 
 heart ; and iu reading aloud he furnished the chief delight
 
 206 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 of those social, enchanting winter evenings, which he has 
 described so happily in the fourth book of The Task. 
 
 " Secluded from the world, as he had long been, he yet 
 retained in advanced life singular talents for conversation ; 
 and his remarks were uniformly distinguished by mild and 
 benevolent pleasantry, by a strain of 'delicate humour, 
 varied by solid and serious good sense, and those imited 
 charms of a cultivated mind, which he has himself very 
 happily described in drawing the character of a venerable 
 friend : — 
 
 " ' Grave -n-ithout dulness, learned without pride ; 
 Exact, yet not precise : though meek, keen-eyed ; 
 Who, when occasion justified its use, 
 Had wit, as bright as ready, to produce; 
 Could fetch from records of an earlier age, 
 Or from philosophy's euhghtened page, 
 His rich materials, and regale your ear 
 With strains it was a privilege to hear. 
 Yet, above all, his luxury supreme. 
 And his chief glory, was the Gospel theme : 
 Ambitious not to shine or to excel. 
 But to treat justly what he lov'd so well.' " 
 
 At a distance of nearly half a century, an humble 
 admirer, and not unsuccessful follower of William Cowper, 
 penned these lines, after a pilgrimage to the former haunts 
 of the poet : — 
 
 " Are these the trees ? is this the place ? 
 These roses — did they bloom for him? 
 Trod he these walks ^rith thoughtful pace ? 
 Passed he amidst these borders ti-im ? 
 
 Is this the bower ? — a humble shed, 
 Methinks, it seems for such a guest ! 
 
 Wliy rise not columns, dome-bespread, 
 With Art's elaborate fingers ch-esf.'
 
 LnfES BY JAXE TAYLOR. 207 
 
 Art waits on wealth, — there let her roam, 
 
 Her fahricsrear, her temples gild; 
 But Genius, when she seeks a home, 
 
 Must send for Nature's self to build. 
 
 The quiet garden's humble bound, 
 
 This humble roof, this rustic fane. 
 With playful tendi-ils twining round, 
 
 And woodbines peeping at the pane, — 
 
 That tranquil tender sky of blue, 
 
 Where clouds of golden radiance skim, — 
 
 Those ranging trees of varied hue, — 
 These were the sights that solaced him. 
 
 We stept within : — at once on each 
 
 A feeling steals, so luidefiued ; 
 In vain we seek to give it speech — 
 
 'Tis silent homage paid to Mind. 
 
 They tell us, here he thought and wi'ote, 
 
 On this low seat, reclining thus ; 
 Ye garden breezes, as ye float. 
 
 Why bear ye no such thoughts to us ? 
 
 Perhaps the balmy air was fraught 
 
 With breath of heaven? — or did he toil 
 In precious mines of sparkling thought, 
 
 Concealed beneath the curious soil ? 
 
 Did zephyrs bear, on golden wings. 
 
 Rich treasures from the honied dew ? 
 Or are there here celestial springs 
 
 Of living waters whence he di'ew ? 
 
 And here he suffered ! — this recess, 
 
 Where even nature fail'd to cheer, 
 Has witncss'd oft his deep distress ; 
 
 And precious drops have fallen here I 
 
 Here are no richly-scidptured ums. 
 
 The consecrated dust to cover ; 
 But Nature smiles and weeps by turns, 
 
 In memory of her fondest lover."
 
 208 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 IX. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 CowPER, then, descended to his grave under the burden of 
 the same mental disorder, which had oppressed his spirits 
 for almost thirty years. Of the character of that disorder 
 we have already said something ; but we cannot close the 
 present narrative without attempting to give a fuUer 
 elucidation. 
 
 "We have remarked that, viewed chronologically, this 
 mental disorder is found to exist in Cowper before any 
 outward circumstances could have caused it, and before 
 any religious convictions could have helped to excite it. 
 "While at "Westminster school, in what Southey deems " the 
 happiest period of his life," and Avhile in the Temple, in 
 the buoyancy of early manhood, he felt the power of this 
 disease ; and hence, those who would ascribe his malady 
 to those views of religion which he embraced several years 
 after, are merely exhibiting that unreasonableness which is 
 seldom absent from religious prejudice. 
 
 Another remark which should be made — especially to 
 the young and inexperienced — is, that although it may 
 appear, from the peculiar tenor of Cowper's life, as if his 
 case was a very extraordinary one, the fact is quite other- 
 wise. Few who have seen much of human life can be 
 ignorant, that although cases resembling Cowjjer's are not 
 very common, yet neither are they very rare. To exem- 
 plify this, we will allude to two cases of a similar kind 
 which have fallen under our own notice during the last 
 few years. 
 
 In a principal town of the county in which Cowper 
 spent more than half his life, lived a clergyman, whose
 
 CONCLUSION. 209 
 
 circumstances would be generally considered to be more 
 than ordinarily felicitous. Possessing an abundant foi-tune, 
 an amiable wife and family, good taste, and considerable 
 leisure, most men would have regarded him as an indi- 
 vidual of singularly fortunate lot. Yet, although left with- 
 out control, and being not, in fact, insane, he was often, 
 like Cowper, one of the most miserable of men. His dis- 
 order was hj^jochondriasis ; and in his case "Methodism" 
 could not be blamed, for his views resembled much more 
 those of Southey, than those of Newton or Cowper. 
 
 Nearer London, and not far from the latest abode of 
 Cowper s cousin Theodora^ lived another clergyman. He, 
 too, was not only a scholar and of blameless life, but also, 
 like tlie former individual, amply provided for, and free 
 from all pecuniary cares. When in health, and free from 
 mental disorder, he was one of the happiest of men. 
 Reconciled to God, and rejoicing in the light of his Re- 
 deemer's countenance, his condition and state were, on the 
 whole, such as an angel, if commanded to labour on earth, 
 might have chosen. But he, too, was subject to hypo- 
 chondriasis ; and for several years towards the close of his 
 life he " walked in darkness, and saw no light." The per- 
 petual sadness which dwelt on his fine countenance could 
 be forgotten by none who had once contemplated it. 
 
 A third instance of this kind was brought under 
 Cowper's own notice, by his friend Mr. Newton, iu the 
 hope that, in detecting the delusion in another mind, he 
 might apply the remedy to his own. 
 
 Simon Browne was bom about the year 1680, at 
 Shepton Mallett, in Somersetshire, and in 1716 had been 
 chosen minister of the Meeting in the Old Jewry ("one 
 of the most respectable among the Dissenters") : He 
 lost in the year 1723 his wife and only son, and fell 
 into a deep melancholy, which ended in a settled per- 
 suasion that " he had fallen under the sensible displeasure 
 of God, who had caused his rational soul gradually to 
 pei'ish, and left him only an animal life, in common with 
 brutes ; so that, though he retained the faculty of sjjeaking 
 in a manner that appeared rational to others, he had all. 
 
 P
 
 210 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 the while no more notion of what he said than a parrot, — 
 being utterly divested of consciousness. It was, there- 
 fore," he said, " profane for him to pray, and incongruous to 
 be present at the jarayers of others." Resigning his minis- 
 try under this delusion, he retired to his native place, and 
 there amused himself with translating portions of the 
 Greek and Latin poets into English verse, and writing little 
 pieces for the use of children. Then he undertook to com- 
 pile a dictionary, which, he observed, was doing nothing 
 that required a reasonable soul : but towards the close of 
 his life, he engaged earnestly in theological subjects, and 
 published A sober and charitable Disquisition C07icerning 
 the Importance of the Trinity ; a fit Rebuke to a ludicrous 
 Infidel, in Reply to one of Woolston' s Discourses ; and A 
 Defence of the Religion of Nature and of the Christian 
 Revelation, in answer to TindaVs Christianity as old as the 
 Creation. All these are said to be " well-reasoned and 
 clearly-written pieces," and the latter " was allowed to be 
 the best which that controversy produced." He had pre- 
 pared a Dedication for this to Queen Caroline, as of all 
 extraordinary things which had been tendered to her royal 
 hands, the chief ; not in itself, " but on account of the 
 author, who, said he, is the first being of the kind, and yet 
 without a name. He was once a man, and of some little 
 name, but of no worth, as his present unparalleled case 
 makes but too manifest ; for by the immediate hand of 
 an avenging God, his very thinking substance has for more 
 than seven years been continually wasting away, till it is 
 wholly perished out of him, if it be not utterly gone to 
 nothing. None, no, not the least remembrance of its very 
 ruins remains ; not the shadow of an idea is left ; nor any 
 sense that so much as any one single one, perfect or im- 
 perfect, whole or diminished, ever did appear to a mind 
 within him, or was perceived by it." 
 
 Those who have been personally acquainted with such 
 oases — and they are not rare ones — will easily perceive that 
 there was nothing so singular or strange in Cowper's ail- 
 ment, as to require any particular apology or laboured 
 investigation.
 
 CONCLUSION. 211 
 
 The disorder itself has been correctly described by an 
 eminent Reviewer,* in very few words : — 
 
 " Cowper's mind was undoubtedly predisposed to hyjio- 
 chondria, from some iniijstery of its original organisation. 
 It so happened that the particular form assumed by his 
 complaint was the desperate behef in his eternal rejection ; 
 but had religious ideas been less prevalent in his mind 
 than they probably were, some other phantom would have 
 been conjured up instead of this, the original propensity 
 remaining the same." 
 
 Two speaking portraits, by his own pen, describe both 
 his melancholy mood, and his more peaceful hours, during 
 his Olney life. Tlie nature of his disease is thus faithfully 
 sketched in the piece entitled Retirement : — 
 
 " Look where he coraes — in this embowered alcove 
 Stand close concealed, and see a statue move. 
 Lips busy, and eyes fixed, foot falling slow. 
 Arms hanging icUy down, hands clasped below, 
 Interpret to the marking eye distress 
 Such as its symptoms can alone express. 
 That tongue is silent now ; that silent tongue 
 Could argue once, coidd jest or join the song, 
 Could give advice, could censure or commend, 
 Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. 
 Renounced alike its office and its sport, 
 Its brisker and its graver strains fall short: 
 Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway, 
 And hke a summer brook are pass'd away." 
 
 And his happier hours, the first eight years spent at 
 Olney, are thus described : — 
 
 " I was a stricken deer, that left the herd 
 Long since ; with many an arrow deep enfLx'd 
 My panting side was charged, when I withdrew 
 To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
 There was I found by One who had himself 
 Been hurt by th' archers : in his sides he bore, 
 And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars, 
 "With gentle force soUciting the darts 
 
 • Edinburgh Review, No. 123.
 
 212 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live. 
 Since then, ■with few associatey, in remote 
 And silent woods I wander, far from those 
 My former partners of the peopled scene ; 
 "With few associates, and not wishing more, 
 Here much I rmiiinate, as much I may, 
 With other \-iews of men and manners now 
 Than once ; and others of a life to come." 
 
 Still, however, we shall doubtless be asked, how we can 
 account for this long imprisoumeut, in the dungeons of 
 despair, of a pilgrim who had for seven or eight years pre- 
 viously been walking simply and peacefully with God, and 
 living in the personal friendship of such a pastor as Mr. 
 Newton. We reply, just as Cowper himself replied, when, 
 called on to explain the removal of his friend Unwin, 
 and writing to Lady Hesketh, he says, — 
 
 " The removal of a man in the prime of life, of such a 
 character, and with such connexions, seems to make a void 
 in society which can never be fiUed. God seemed to have 
 made him just what he was, that he might be a blessing to 
 others ; and when the influence of his character and abilities 
 began to be felt, removed him. These are mysteries that 
 we cannot contemplate without astonishment; but which 
 will, nevertheless, be explained hereafter, and must in the 
 meantime be revered in silence." 
 
 Treating of these mysteries in the dealings of Divine 
 Providence, Bishop M'llvaine says : — 
 
 " Consider how little we are capable of discerning the 
 interior of anything ; how we are only as children in the 
 ruirsery, looking out upon the boundless empire of God, 
 through a veiy little window, and that very obscure ; that 
 it is but just a corner of the map of his universal provi- 
 dence that is unrolled to our insi^ection ; so that we see 
 never but 'parts of his ways,' and cannot follow out a 
 single line of the chart beyond our own position." 
 
 " Every least event, the falling of a leaf, the passing of a 
 shadow, the movement of a thought, the death of an insect, 
 is connected, in the counsels of God, as really as the dowaa- 
 fall of an empire, with one grand, holy, infinitely good and 
 wise design, which, from the beginning, he has been carrying
 
 CONCLUSION. 213 
 
 on toward the final consummation, as steadily and surely 
 as the sun ascends the skies ; involving infinite complexity 
 of detail ; presenting to our feeble vision inextricable con- 
 fusion and contradiction ; but going on in the continual 
 progress of its vast orbit, with such harmony and per- 
 fectness in the siglit of God, that all will be finally com- 
 pleted precisely where, and when, and how, his will at first 
 designed. 
 
 " But what a world of darkness is all that movement to 
 us, except as we see a little of its surface ! How much of 
 it can we trace 1 How far can our sounding-line descend 
 into its depths ? How many of its winding labyrinths are 
 we able to follow ? Is there a single course on that chart 
 that our eye can pursue ? Is there a single action of our 
 own, or of any creature, the bearing of which on that move- 
 ment we can see, or in any degree appreciate, knowing, as 
 we do, all the while, that every action of every creature is 
 part and parcel of that wondrous system 1 
 
 " A few things of God's providence we do know, but only 
 because he has told us. We know that in the moving on 
 of his great purposes he is present everywhere, and to us 
 aU ; that his will controls, combines, subordinates all 
 events to his final design ; that to each of us there is that 
 freeness which makes us morally accountable for what we 
 do, or leave undone ; that all things shall work together 
 for eternal good to them that love God ; that the ultimate 
 accomplishment of the perfect redemption and blessedness 
 of the whole blessed communion of those who believe in 
 his Son Jesus Christ, is the one end to which the whole 
 movement is directed ; and that all will issue at last in 
 most wonderfully displaying and glorifying the infinite 
 riches of the wisdom, and goodness, and gi-ace of God to a 
 sinful world. More than this, as to the providence of our 
 Heavenly Father, we know not — more, we have no need, in 
 this life, to know. It is our Father's hand that is guiding 
 all ; and what need his children to inquire any further I 
 ' His way is in the sea, and his path in the mighty waters, 
 and his footsteps are not known.' We cannot follow them ; 
 but we can trust and not be afi'aid. We may take the 
 lamp of his word, and go forward in our daily obedience.
 
 214 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 feeling that tlie path of life and salvation, and so of haj)- 
 piness, here, as well as hereafter, is plain ; but stiU, — it is 
 Night.* 
 
 It is a circumstance which ought not to be overlooked, 
 that, only a short time before his ilhiess of 1773, CowjDer's 
 own thoughts were drawn to this very subject ; and, in 
 something like a prophetic strain, he penned the following 
 hymn : — 
 
 " God moves in a mysterious way 
 His wonders to perform ; 
 He plants his footsteps in the sea, 
 And rides upon the storm. 
 
 Deep in unfathomable mines 
 
 Of never-failing skill 
 He treasures up his bright designs. 
 
 And works his sovereign will. 
 
 Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take ! 
 
 The clouds ye so much dread 
 Are big with mercy, and shall break 
 
 In blessings on yoiu- head. 
 
 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense. 
 
 But trust him for his grace ; 
 Behind a frowning pro\'idence 
 
 He hides a smiling face. 
 
 His purposes will ripen fast, 
 
 Unfolding every hour ; 
 The bud may have a bitter taste. 
 
 But sweet will be the flower. 
 
 Blind unbelief is sure to err, 
 
 And scan his work in vain ; 
 God is his own interpreter, 
 
 And he will make it plain." 
 
 Yet, although our duty and our greatest wisdom is to 
 adore in silence, when "God's ways are in the deep and his 
 path in the great waters," still, in some cases, and possibly 
 in this, a glimpse of the Divine purpose may be gained. 
 
 • The Truth and the Life, by tho Kt- Rev. C. V. M'llvaiiie.
 
 CONCLUSION. 215 
 
 At the period when Cowper appeared, a work was carry- 
 ing on, in which — .speaking after the manner of men — God 
 required just such an instrument as it pleased him to raise 
 up in Cowper. The upward progress of England towards 
 that elevation which has latterly been given to her, had 
 commenced. God had called and sent forth Whitfield and 
 Wesley, Toplady and Berridge and Newton. By these, 
 the rough and firm foundation of evangelical truth had 
 been laid. Bvit still, what was called " Methodism " was 
 held in low esteem by the educated and elevated classes. 
 
 To alter this state of things required such a man as 
 Cowper. And here we must distinguish between two dif- 
 ferent operations, and two different kinds of labour. 
 
 Individuals are converted and saved by a Divine change 
 wrought in the heart : this is chiefly the office of the mmistry, 
 and effected by means of the pulj^it. But, besides this, 
 there is another, a lower, and less supernatural work, car- 
 ried on in nations; softening, ameliorating, and "bringing 
 them nigh." To explain what we mean, we will refer to one 
 or two facts. 
 
 The state of the people of England has been greatly 
 changed for the better in the last sixty or eighty years ; 
 and this, in many respects which cannot be directly traced 
 to the public preaching of the Gospel. Myriads are now 
 furthering the work of God, who, a century ago, would have 
 been found among its furious opposers ; and this, without 
 being themselves, in heart, renewed unto righteousness. 
 
 At the beginning of the present century, in the metro- 
 polis, the fashionable employment on the Sabbathrday of 
 the higher classes was, after the morning service, to spend 
 an hour or two in a drive in the Parks. The last five-aud- 
 twenty years have witnessed the decay of this custom ; 
 and few are now seen in the Parks on Sunday, except the 
 "gentlemen of the turf," and laches of a still lower repu- 
 tation. 
 
 At the same period, Sunday was the favourite day for 
 dinner-parties at the west end of the metropolis. Now, a 
 large dinner-party is becoming an unusual and a di.sre- 
 putable thing on that day. 
 
 At the same period, the savage "bull-bait" was a com-
 
 216 LIFE OF WnXIAM COWPER. 
 
 mon amusement in our provincial toAvns ; and noblemen 
 and gentlemen of reputation attended the pugilistic prize- 
 fights which then occurred every two or three months. 
 Now, all such amusements have nearly passed away ; and 
 the magistrate who should hear of an intended bull-bait or 
 pugilistic encounter in his neighbourhood, would be almost 
 sure to issue his warrant to apprehend the parties as 
 criminals. 
 
 In a variety of other and similar respects a great change 
 has taken place since the close of the last century. We 
 owe it to the Divine Hand ; but by what means has that 
 Hand worked 1 Not simply or chiefly by the pulpit ; for 
 Sabbath-breakers and bull-tormentors are not found among 
 those who come within hearing, even of a Scott or a Newton. 
 
 The Unseen Hand uses many means to bring about 
 such changes as these. But, most unquestionably, one of 
 the most powerful means employed, for the amelioration of 
 society in England, was, the raising up a Christian Poet. 
 
 The saying has long been noted for its wisdom : " I care 
 not who makes the laivs for a people, if you will let me 
 make their songs.''' By means of the bard of Olney, " Me- 
 thodism" — Le. Bible Christianity — was brought in a popu- 
 lar and captivating form into every library in the kingdom, 
 and into almost every drawing-room. The very truths of 
 Scripture,c\oih.edi in fervid and poetic language, were sounded 
 in every man's ears. Who, that reads at all in England, 
 has not read Cowjier 1 And who, having read, forgets such 
 pictui'es as those which were sketched by him 1 
 
 Now, for a wor'k of this peculiar nature, God rcqnirM 
 an instrument of a peculiar kind. And to create such an 
 instrument, peculiar means were, humanly speaking, neces- 
 sary. He who seeks to produce a lancet or razor of the 
 finest edge, selects a fitting piece of ore, and then exposes 
 it to a special annealing in the fire. 
 
 Let us present a few of the golden passages which are 
 scattered about Cowper's writings ; and let us ask our 
 readers to consider, what must be the natural effect of 
 such appeals to the heart and understanding, carried, by 
 the brilliancy of the author's genius, into every library and 
 almost every drawing-room in the kingdom : —
 
 CONCXUSION. 21 7 
 
 " for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
 Some boundless contiguity of sliade, 
 "Where rumour of oppression and deceit, 
 Of unsuccessful or successful war, 
 Might never reach ine more. My ear is pain'd. 
 My soul is sick with every day's report 
 Of wrong and outrage with wliich earth is fiU'tl. 
 There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart ; 
 It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
 Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax, 
 That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
 He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
 Not colour'd like his own ; and having power 
 To enforce the ^\Tong, for such a worthy cause 
 Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
 Lands intei'sected by a naiTow fnth 
 Abhor each other. Mountains intei-posed 
 Make enemies of nations, who had else. 
 Like kindred drops, been mingled into one. 
 Thus man devotes his brother and destroys ; 
 And worse than all, and most to be deplored. 
 As human nature's broadest, foulest blot. 
 Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
 With stripes, that Mercy witli a bleeding heart 
 TVeeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast. 
 Then, what is man ? And what man seeing this, 
 And ha\'ing hiuiian feelings, does not blush. 
 And hang his head, to think himself a man ? 
 I would not have a slave to till my ground. 
 To can'y me, to fan me while 1 sleep, 
 And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
 That sinews bought and sold have ever eam'd. 
 No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
 Just estimation prized above all ijrice, 
 I had much rather be myself the slave, 
 And wear the bonds, tlian fasten them on him. 
 We have no slaves at home — then why abroad? 
 And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave 
 That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 
 Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs 
 Receive our air, that moment tliey are free ; 
 They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 
 That's uoble, and bespealis a nation proud
 
 218 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
 And let it circulate through every vein 
 Of all your empire ; that, where Britain's power 
 Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too." 
 
 "But there is yet a liberty, unsung 
 By poets, and by senators unpraised, 
 "Which mouarchs cannot grant, nor all the powers 
 Of earth and hell confederate take away ; 
 A liberty, which persecution, fraud, 
 Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind ; 
 "Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more? 
 'Tis liberty of heart derived from Heaven, 
 Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind, 
 And seal'd with the same token. It is held 
 By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure 
 By the unimiDeachable and awful oath 
 And promise of a God. His other gifts 
 All bear the royal stamp, that speaks them his, 
 And are august ; but this transcends them all. 
 His other works, the \dsible display 
 Of all-creating enei'gy and might. 
 Are grand no doubt, and worthy of the word, 
 That, fincUng an interminable space 
 Unoccupied, has fiU'd the void so well. 
 And made so sparkling what was dai'k before: 
 But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true, 
 Smit ■n'ith the beauty of so fair a scene. 
 Might well suppose the Artificer di^ine 
 Meant it eternal, had he not himself 
 Pronounced it transient, glorious as it is; 
 And, still designing a more glorious far, 
 Doom'd it as insufficient for his praise. 
 These therefore are occasional, and pass : 
 Form'd for the confutation of the fool. 
 Whose lying heart disputes against a God; 
 That office serv'd, they must be swept away. 
 Not so the labours of his love : they shine 
 In other heavens than these tliat we behold, 
 And fade not. Tliere is Pai'adise that feai's 
 No forfeiture, and of its fruits he sends 
 Large prelibation oft to saints below. 
 Of these the first in order, and the pledge,
 
 CONCLUSION. 219 
 
 And confident assurance of the rest, 
 Is liberty ; a tliglit into his arms, 
 Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way ; 
 A clear escape from tyrannizing lust, 
 And full immunity from penal woe." 
 
 " He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free. 
 And all are slaves besides. There's not a chain, 
 That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, 
 Can -vvind around him, but he casts it off 
 "With as much ease as Samson his green withes. 
 He looks abroad into the varied field 
 Of nature, and though poor, perhaps, compared 
 With those whose mansions glitter in Iiis sight, 
 Calls the delightful scenery all his own. 
 His are the mountains, and the valleys his, 
 And the resplendent rivers : his to enjoy 
 With a propriety that none can feel, 
 But who, with filial confidence inspired. 
 Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye. 
 And smiling say—' My Father made them all ! ' 
 Are they not his by a peculiar right. 
 And by an emphasis of interest his, 
 "Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy. 
 Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind 
 With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love. 
 That plann'd, and built, and still upholds a world 
 So clothed with beauty for rebellious man ? 
 Yes — ye may fill your gai-ners, ye that reap 
 The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good 
 In senseless riot ; but ye will not find 
 In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, 
 A liberty like his, who unimpeach'd 
 Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, 
 Appropriates nature as his Father's work, 
 And has a richer use of yours than you. 
 He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth 
 Of no mean city; plann'd, or ere the hills 
 Were built, the fountains open'd, or the sea. 
 With all his roaiiug multitude of waves. 
 His freedom is tlie same in every stage ; 
 And no condition of this changeful hfe, 
 So manifold in cares, whose eveiy day
 
 220 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Brings its own evil with it, makes it less : 
 
 For lie has wings, that neither sickness, pain, 
 
 Nor penury, can cripi)le or confine. 
 
 No nook so narrow, but he spreads them there 
 
 With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds 
 
 His body hound, but knows not what a range 
 
 His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ; 
 
 And that to bind him is a vain attempt. 
 
 Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells." 
 
 " Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
 Their only point of rest, eternal ^V'ord ! 
 From thee departing they are lost, and rove 
 At random, without honour, hope, or peace. 
 From thee is all that soothes the life of man, 
 His high endeavour, and his glad success, 
 His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
 But oh ! thou bounteous Giver of all good, 
 Thou art of aU thy gifts thyself the crown ! 
 Give what thou canst, -nithout thee we are poor : 
 And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away." 
 
 " Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet 
 Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch : 
 Nor can the wonders it records be sung 
 To meaner music, and not suffer loss. 
 But when a poet, or when one like me, 
 Happy to rove among poetic flowers, 
 Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last 
 On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair, 
 Such is the impulse and the spur he feels, 
 To give it praise jjroportion'd to its wtirth, 
 Tliat not to attempt it, arduous as he deems 
 The labour, were a task more arduous still. 
 scenes surjiassing fable, and yet true, 
 Scenes of accomplish'd bliss ; whicli who can see, 
 Though but in distant prospect, and not feel 
 His soul refresh'd ^vith foretaste of the joy ? 
 Rivers of gladness water all the earth, 
 And clothe all climes witli beauty; the i-eproach 
 Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field 
 Laughs witli abinidance ; and tlie land, once lean, 
 Or fertile only in its own disgrace,
 
 CONCLUSIONS 221 
 
 Exults to see its thistly curse repealed. 
 
 The various seasons woven into one, 
 
 And that one season an eternal spring. 
 
 The garden feaj's no blight, and needs no fence, 
 
 For there is none to covet ; all are full. 
 
 The lion, and the lihhard, and the bear, 
 
 Graze with the fearless flocks ; all bask at noon 
 
 Together, or all gambol in the shade 
 
 Of the same grove, and drink one common stream. 
 
 Antipathies are none. No foe to man 
 
 Lurks in the serpent now : the mother sees. 
 
 And smiles to see, her infant's plaj'ful hand 
 
 Stretch'd forth to dally with the crested worm, 
 
 To stroke his azure neck, or to receive 
 
 The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. 
 
 All creatm-es worship man, and all mankind 
 
 One Lord, one Father. Error has no place : 
 
 That creeping pestilence is driven away ; 
 
 The breath of lieaven has chased it. In the heart 
 
 No passion touches a discordant string, 
 
 But all is liarmoiiy and love. Disease 
 
 Is not : the pure and uncontaminate blood 
 
 Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. 
 
 One song employs all nations ; and all cry, 
 
 ' Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us ! ' 
 
 The dwellers in the -vales and on the rocks 
 
 Sliout to each other, and the mountain-tops 
 
 From distant mountains catch the flying joy; 
 
 Till nation after nation taught the strain. 
 
 Earth rolls tlia rapturous Hosanna round." 
 
 " Yon cottager who weaves at her own door. 
 Pillow and bobbins all her little store ; 
 Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay, 
 Shuffling her threads about the livelong day, 
 Just earns a scanty pittance, and at niglit 
 Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light : 
 She for her humble splicre by nature fit, 
 Has little understanding, and no wit : 
 Receives no praise ; but though lier lot be such 
 (Toilsome and indigent), slie renders much ; 
 Just knows, and knows no more, her Bilde time — 
 A truth tlie brilHant Frenchman never knew ;
 
 222 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes 
 Her title to a treasure in the skies. 
 
 happy peasant ! O unhappy bard ! 
 His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward: 
 He, praised, perhaps, for ages yet to come ; 
 She, never heard of half a mile from home : 
 He, lost in errors his vain heart prefers ; 
 She, safe in the simphcity of hers." 
 
 " When nations are to perish in their sins, 
 'Tis in the church the leprosy begins ; 
 The priest, whose office is with zeal sincere 
 To watch the fountain, and presei've it clear, 
 Carelessly nods and sleeps upon the brink, 
 While others poison what the flock must drink ; 
 Or, waking at tlie call of lust alone, 
 Infuses lies and errors of his own ; 
 His unsuspecting sheep believe it pure ; 
 And. tainted by the very means of cure. 
 Catch from each other a contagious spot, 
 The foul fore-runner of a general rot. 
 Then Truth is hush'd, that Heresy may preach ; 
 And all is trash, that Reason cannot reach : 
 Then God's own image on the soul impress'd 
 Becomes a mockery, and a standing jest; 
 And faith, the root whence only can arise 
 The graces of a life that wins the skies, 
 Loses at once all value and esteem. 
 Pronounced by greybeards a pernicious dream : 
 Then Ceremony leads her bigots forth, 
 Prepai'd to fight for shadows of no worth ; 
 WhUe truths, on which eternal things depend, 
 Find not, or hardly find, a single friend : 
 As soldiers watch the signal of command. 
 They learn to bow, to kneel, to sit, to stand ; 
 Happy to fill religion's vacant place. 
 With hollow form, and gesture, and grimace." 
 
 " Leuconomus, (beneath well-sounding Greek 
 I slur a name a poet must not speak) 
 Stood pilloried on Infamy's high stage, 
 And bore the pelting scorn of half an age ; 
 The very butt of Slander, and the blot
 
 CONCLUSION. 223 
 
 For every dart that ^Malice ever shot. 
 
 The mail that mention'd him at once dismiss'd 
 
 All mercy from his lips, and sneer'd and hiss'd ; 
 
 His crimes were such as Sodom never knew. 
 
 And perjm-y stood up to swear all true ; 
 
 His aim was mischief, and his zeal pretence, 
 
 His speech rebellion against common sense ; 
 
 A knave, when tried on honesty's plain rule ; 
 
 And when by that of reason, a mere fool; 
 
 The world's best comfort was, his doom was pass'd ; 
 
 Die when he might, he must be damn'd at last. 
 
 Now, Tiuth, perform thine office ; waft aside 
 The curtain drawn by Prejudice and Pride, 
 Reveal (the man is dead) to wondering eyes 
 This more than monster, in his proper guise. 
 He loved the world that hated him : the tear 
 That dropp'd upon his Bible was sincere: 
 Assail'd by scandal and the tongue of strife, 
 His only answer was a blameless life ; 
 And he that forged, and he that threw the dart, 
 Had each a brother's interest in his heart. 
 Paul's love of Christ, and steadiness unbribed, 
 Were copied close in him, and well transcribed. 
 He follow'd Paul ; his zeal a kindred flame, 
 His apostolic charity the same. 
 Like him, cross'd cheerfully tempestuous seas, 
 Forsaking country, kindred, friends, and ease ; 
 Like him he labour'd, and like him content 
 To bear it, suffer'd shame, where'er he went. 
 Blush, Calumny! and wTite uiion his tomb, 
 If honest Eulogy can spare the room. 
 Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies. 
 Which, aim'd at him, have i^ierced the offended skies ! 
 And say. Blot out my sin, confess'd, deplored, 
 Against thine image, in thy saint, Lord ! " 
 
 " Stand now and judge thyself — Hast thou incurr'd 
 His anger, who can waste thee witli a word, 
 Who poises and proportions sea and land. 
 Weighing them in the hollow of his hand, 
 And in whose a^v'ful sight all nations seem 
 As grasshoppers, as dust, a drop, a dream ?
 
 224 LITE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Hast thou (a saciilege bis soul abhors) 
 Claim'd all the glory of thy prosperous wars ? 
 Proud of thy fleets and armies, stolen the gem 
 Of his just praise, to lavish it on them ? 
 Hast thou not learn'd, what thou art often told, 
 A truth still sacred, and beUeved of old, 
 That no success attends on spears and swords 
 Unbless'd, and that the battle is the Lord's ? 
 That courage is his creatiire ; and dismay 
 The post, that at his bidding speeds away, 
 Ghastly in feature, and liis stammering tongue 
 With doleful humour and sad presage hung, 
 To quell the valour of the stoutest heart. 
 And teach the combatant a woman's part ? 
 That he bids thousands fly when none pursue, 
 Saves as he will by many or by few, 
 And claims for ever, as his royal right. 
 The event and sure decision of the fight ? 
 
 Hast thou, though suckled at fair Freedom's breast. 
 Exported slavery to the conquer'd East ? 
 Pull'd down the tyrants India served with dread, 
 And raised thyself a greater, in their stead ? 
 Gone thither arm'd and hungry, retum'd full. 
 Fed from the richest veins of the Mogul, 
 A despot big with power obtained by wealth, 
 And that obtain'd by rapine and by stealth ? 
 With Asiatic \'ices stored thy mind. 
 But left their vutues and thine own behind ? 
 
 Hast thou, by statute, shoved from its design 
 The Sa\-iour's feast, liis own bless'd bread and wine. 
 And made the symbols of atoning grace 
 An ofBce-key, a picklock to a place, 
 That infidels may prove their title good 
 By an oath dipp'd in sacramental blood ? 
 A blot that will be still a blot, in spite 
 Of all that grave apologists may write ; 
 And though a bishop toil to cleanse the stain. 
 He wipes and scoiu-s the silver cup in vain. 
 And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, 
 Till perjuries are common as bad ijence, 
 While tliousands, careless of the damning sin. 
 Kiss the book's outside who ne'er looked within ?"
 
 CONCLUSION. 225 
 
 The first of these passages worked, iu course of time, 
 the cleanshig of Britain from the guilt of slavery ; — the 
 second, in even, a shorter period, destroyed the Test and 
 Corporation Acts. 
 
 But Southey, and the Edinburgh and Quarterly Review- 
 ers, and all others who hate " Methodism," would fain have 
 had the poet without his " gloom," and without his " peculiar 
 views." In other words, they would have the effect without 
 the cause. This unreasonable desire suggests a train of 
 thought which may be not without its utility. 
 
 These writers dislike greatly to hear of what is called 
 Cowper's " conversion." He himself, in a private memoir, 
 composed in his calmest and most i-ational hours, asserts 
 the fart. They still persist in doubting it, and call in his 
 insanity at other periods of his life to destroy the value of 
 his testimony on this one point. They wish to discredit 
 the supposition, that there was any such total change 
 wrought iu him as the Apostles constantly describe, and 
 as he himself avers to have taken place. 
 
 Yet there is one "conversion," at least, which they 
 can scarcely call in question, for the proofs of it are visible 
 and tangible to the whole world. We mean his conversion 
 from a Trifler into a ]\[an — from a drawing-room lounger 
 into a mover of the nations — from a poor, weak, helpless 
 thing, into a Power, " mighty, through God, to the pulling 
 down of strongholds." 
 
 We have just spoken of him as raised up, and espe- 
 cially trained, by Divine Providence, for a special work. 
 And this is a point which has been too lightly ])assed over 
 in mo!^ of the biographies of him which have hitherto been 
 written. We know the date of his conversion, almost to a 
 day. It was in the spring of 17G4, when he was in his 
 thirty-third year, that, as he tells us, " In a moment I be- 
 lieved and received the Gospel." Now, let us contemplate 
 him, for a few minutes, before and after this great change. 
 
 He was always, from his childhood, i)Ossessedof talents, 
 education, and refinement. But for more than thirty 
 years he lived a vague, desultory, idle, and purposeless life. 
 We have his " early j)roductions," — not the weak attempts 
 of childhood, but poems written in his twenty-fifth and 
 
 Q
 
 226 LIFE OF WILUAM COWPER. 
 
 twenty-sixth years. Generally, they possess no excelleuce 
 or value. The whole fruits of his pen, for all these thiity 
 years, are not above the average school-exercises of thou- 
 sands of clever school-boys. Had not the great change of 
 17G4 taken place, all memory of William Cowjjer as an 
 author would have been long since forgotten. To use the 
 plain but accurate language of the Eclectic Review, — 
 
 " Cowper was always amiable ; but it must not be dis- 
 guised that, at the age of thirty, ho was but an elegant 
 trifler, gay, wayward, restless, reckless, indolent ; — one of 
 the most helpless and useless tribe of beings, a poor, fine 
 gentleman." 
 
 Such was the poet before what he calls his " conversion." 
 "What was he afterwards 1 Let Campbell, another poet, and 
 of kindred ideas with Southey, describe his character : — 
 
 " Cowper's language has such a masculine, idiomatic 
 strength, and his manner, whether he rises into grace or 
 falls into negligence, has so much plain and familiar freedom, 
 that we read no poetry with a deeper conviction of its 
 having come from the writer's hcai-t ; and of the enthusiasm, 
 in whatever he describes, having been unfeigned and un- 
 exaggerated." " There is a gravity of long-felt conviction 
 in his sentiments, which gives an uncommon ripeness of 
 character to his poetry." " His verse abounds with opposite 
 traits of severity and gentleness, of solemnity and mirth, 
 which appear almost anomalous ; and there is, undoubt- 
 edly, sometimes an air of moody versatility in the extreme 
 contrasts of his feelings. But, looking to his poetry as an 
 entire structure, it has a massive air of sincerity. It is 
 founded on stedfast principles of belief." 
 
 "Society is his debtor. Poetical expositions of the 
 horrors of slavery may, indeed, seem very unlikely agents 
 in contributing to destroy it ; but such appeals to the 
 heart of the community are not lost. They fix themselves 
 silently in the popular memory, and become, at last, a part 
 of that public opinion which must, sooner or later, wrench 
 the lash from the hand of the oppressor." * 
 
 * This was ■written he/ore the passing of the West India Emancipation. 
 Act.
 
 CONCLUSION. 227 
 
 Here is a transformation, the evidence of which is com- 
 plete, — the reahty of which is beyond a doubt. A fact is 
 also adduced, as the real basis, — the only apparent cause 
 for so wonderful a change. It is sufficient in itself, and it 
 is amply vouched for. Surely those who dislike* to credit 
 it, should account for the phenomenon by some other 
 tenable hypothesis. 
 
 They offer us none ; but merely endeavour to evade 
 the difficulty by factitiously elevating his character during 
 his earlier life, and depreciating it during his later years. 
 They dislike, and treat wdth disregard, his supposed " con- 
 version." They wish to think that he was a Christian 
 long before, when, as he tells us, he was "living in an 
 uninterrupted course of sin," and when, liut for visiting 
 his uncle's family, he would " never have seen the inside 
 of a church." His strong impression, or whatever else it 
 was, of which he was sensible while at Dr. Cotton's, they 
 regard as a mere fancy or day-dream, — an impression made 
 in a moment, and in a moment fading away. 
 
 This evident and iinconcealed dislike to the fact of 
 Cowper's " conversion," contrasts strongly with the readi- 
 ness with which the most romantic fictions are credited 
 and approved. Thus, in one of the most popular stories of 
 our most popular novelist, a man of excessive pride, and of 
 iron insensibility, is suddenly converted into a meek, 
 humble, and affectionate being.* And this happens merely 
 as a result of the loss of fortune ! Yet, no one remarks 
 that this is " entirely out of nature ;" — that no instance of 
 such a change, apart from the power of the Gospel, was 
 ever known ; — and that if the writer had described Mr, 
 Dombey as finding, on awaking one morning, a pair of 
 wings growing from his shoulders, he would not have 
 imagined a thing more romantic or incredible than he has 
 done. But novel-readers do not detect, and are not of- 
 fended at, the utter improbability of the narrative. It 
 supposes a thorough conversion of a man's being, wholly by 
 his own power or will ; or, rather, by the force of natural 
 causes — adversity, or sohtude, or illness. This is believed, 
 
 * Dombey and Son, by Charles Dickens.
 
 228 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 because it is liked. But let a man narrate the truth as to 
 his own experience, and let him sjaeak of a Divine power 
 operating through the Gospel, and bringing him to Christ 
 for salvation ; and at once a cry is I'aised of " Enthusiasm," 
 " Methodism," or " Calvinism." The fiction is eagerly ap- 
 plauded, because it agrees with men's wishes ; the fact is 
 rejected, as incredible or exaggerated, because it makes 
 salvation the gift of God, and not the work of man. So 
 was it m our Lord's own day. When he, speaking to the 
 men of his own city, Nazareth, said : — 
 
 " I tell you of a truth, many widows were in Israel in 
 the days of Elias, when the heaven was shut up three years 
 and six months, when great famine was throughout all the 
 land ; but unto none of them was Ehas sent, save unto 
 Sarepta, a city of Sidon, unto a woman that was a widow. 
 And many lepers were in Israel in the time of Eliseus the 
 prophet ; and none of them was cleansed, saving Naaman 
 the Syrian." Then we are immediately told, that " aU they 
 in the synagogue, when they heard these things, were filled 
 with wrath, and rose up, and thrust him out of the city, 
 and led him unto the brow of the hill whereon their city 
 was built, that they might cast him down headlong." * 
 
 But we must return to the present history. The test 
 of the reality of the total change which passed upon 
 Cowper in 1 764, was its endurance. Those who would fain 
 treat it as a dream, a fancy, a delusion, ought to hesitate 
 when they see that the faith which Co^\'J^er received while 
 at St. Alban's never changed or departed. Of himself, of 
 his o-rni interest in the Gospel, he was allowed to doubt, 
 and even to despair. But his convictions as to tlie great 
 truths of Scripture, — as to sin, and as to salvation, never 
 varied one iota. AYe may study his letters, his poems, his 
 life, for more than thirty years, without detecting the least 
 variation in his views of the Saviour or of the Gosiael. 
 
 Examine these two letters, one written to his cousin, 
 Mrs. Cowper, in 1769 ; the other to Mr. Newton, in 1792. 
 More than twenty years had elajjscd, yet the letters speak 
 t)ie same language, on aU points except one. He had learnt 
 
 * Luke, iv. 25-29.
 
 CONCLUSIOX, 229 
 
 to doubt his own interest in the Gospel, just as he had 
 learned to doubt whether his nearest friends loved him ; 
 but in every other respect his belief remains the same : — 
 
 "Olnetj, Auqiist .'31, ]TG!}. 
 " My dear Cousin, — A letter from your brother Frederic 
 brought me yesterday the most afflicting intelligence that 
 has reached me these many years. I i)ray to God to 
 comfort you, and to enable you to sustain this heavy stroke 
 with that resignation to his will which none but himself 
 can give, and which he gives to none but his own children. 
 How blessed and happy is your lot, my dear friend, beyond 
 the common lot of the greater part of mankind ; that you 
 know what it is to draw near to God in prayer, and are 
 acquainted with a throne of grace I You have resources 
 in the infinite love of a dear Redeemer which are withheld 
 from millions : and the promises of God, which are yea 
 and amen in Jesus, are sufficient to answer all your neces- 
 sities, and to sweeten the bitterest cup which your heavenly 
 Father will ever put into your hand. May he now give you 
 liberty to drink at these wells of salvation, till you are 
 filled with consolation and \}Qa,ce in the midst of trouble. 
 He has said, ' When thou jiassest through the waters, I will 
 be with thee ; and through the rivers, they shall not over- 
 flow thee.' You have need of such a word as this, and he 
 knows your need of it, and the time of necessity is the 
 time when he will be sure to appear in behalf of those who 
 trust in him. I bear you and yoiirs upon my heart before 
 him night and day, for I never expect to hear of distress 
 which shall call upon me with a louder voice to pray for 
 the sufferer. I know the Lord hears me for myself, vile 
 and sinful as I am, and believe, and am sure, that he will 
 hear me for you also. He is the friend of the widow and 
 the father of the fothcrless, even God in his holy habitation ; 
 in all our afflictions he is afflicted, and chastens us in mercy. 
 Surely he will sanctify this dispensation to you, do you 
 gi'cat and everlasting good by it, make the world appear 
 like dust and vanity in your sight, as it truly is, and open 
 to your view the glories of a better country-, where there 
 shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor pain ; but God
 
 230 LIFE OP WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 shall wipe away all tears from your eyes for ever. Oh, 
 that comfortable word ! — ' I have chosen thee in the furnace 
 of affliction ;' so that our very sorrows are evidences of 
 our calling, and he chastens us because we are his children. 
 " ]My dear cousin, I commit you to the word of his 
 grace, and to the comforts of his Holy Spirit. Your life is 
 needful for your family. May God, in mercy to them, 
 prolong it ; and may he preserve you from the dangerous 
 effects which a stroke like this might have upon a frame 
 so tender as yours. I gi'ieve with you, I pray for you ; 
 could I do more I would, but God must comfort you. 
 " Yours, in our dear Lord Jesus, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 " July 30, 1792. 
 "My dear Friend, — Like you, I am obliged to snatch 
 short opportunities of corresponding with my friends ; and 
 to write what I can, not what I would. Your kindness in 
 giving me the first letter after your return claims my 
 thanks ; and my tardiness to answer it would demand an 
 apology, if, having been here, and witnessed how mucli my 
 time is occupied in attendance on my poor patient, you 
 could possibly want one. She proceeds, I trust, in her 
 recovery ; but at so slow a rate, that the difference made 
 in a week is hardly perceptible to me, who am always with 
 her. This last night has been the worst she has known 
 since her ilhiess — entirely sleepless till seven in the 
 moruing. Such ill rest seems but an indifferent prepara- 
 tion for a long journey, which we purpose to undertake 
 on Wednesday, when we set out for Eartham, on a visit to 
 Mr. Hayley. The journey itself will, I hope, be useful to 
 her ; and the air of the sea, blowing over the South Downs, 
 together with the novelty of the scene to us, will, I hope, 
 be serviceable to us both. You may imagine that we, who 
 have been resident on one spot so many years, do not 
 engage in such an enterprise without some anxiety. Per- 
 sons accustomed to travel would make themselves merry 
 with mine ; it seems so disproportioned to the occasion. 
 Once I have been on the point of determining not to go, 
 and even since we fixed the day ; my troubles have been
 
 CONCLUSION. 231 
 
 SO insupportable. But it has been made a matter of much 
 prayer, and at last it has pleased God to satisfy me, in 
 some measure,, that his will corresponds with our purpose, 
 and that he will aftbrd us his protection. You, I know, will 
 not be unmindful of us during our absence from home ; 
 but will obtain for us, if your prayers can do it, all that we 
 would ask for ourselves — the presence and favour of God, 
 a salutary effect of our journey, and a safe return. 
 
 " I rejoiced, and had reason to do so, in your coming to 
 Weston, for I think the Lord came with you. Not, indeed, 
 to abide with me ; not to restore me to that intercourse 
 with Him which I enjoyed twenty years ago ; but to 
 awaken in me, however, more spiritual feeling than I have 
 experienced, except in two instances, during all that time. 
 The comforts that I had received under your ministry, in 
 better days, all rushed upon my recollection ; and, during 
 two or three transient moments, seemed to be in a degree 
 renewed. You will teU me that, transient as they were, 
 they were yet evidences of a love that is not so ; and I 
 am desirous to believe it. 
 
 " With Mrs. Unwin's warm remembrances, and my 
 cousin Johnson's best compliments, I am, 
 
 " Sincerely yours, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 Here we have the same man, the same Christian ; with 
 only this difference ; — that the same disease which had 
 caused him to doubt Mr. Newton's identity, caused him 
 also to doubt his own interest in the Christian covenant. 
 
 This permanence is the best possible refutation of the 
 supposition that his conversion was a dream, a momentary 
 fancy or impression. Had it been so, its vanishing would 
 have been as certain as the disappearance of a shadow, or 
 a mist. This permanence is also a solid gi-ound of hope for 
 Cowper himself. He was left to doubt /lis own safety, his 
 own salvation. But what he believed of God in his first 
 and most joyful hours, that he believed as firmly in his 
 darkest and most gloomy condition. To the last he was 
 loyal and obedient. He could not say, indeed, " Though he 
 slay me, yet will I trust in hdn" — but he did say, day by
 
 232 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 day, and hour by hour, " He will slay me, but he has the 
 fullest right to do it." No rebellious feeling, no hatred to 
 God, ever drops from his lips, or his pen. He regarded him- 
 self as a child mysteriously cast off, but he questioned not 
 the parent's right, or impugned the justice of his decision. 
 
 His views of God were merely tinged with the same 
 delusion which overclouded his views of his nearest friends. 
 He himself, describing to Lady Hesketh his illness of 1773, 
 says,— 
 
 " This state of mind was accompanied with misappre- 
 hensions of things and persons, which made me a very 
 intractable patient. I believed that everybody hated me, 
 and that Mrs. Unwin hated me most of all ; v,-as convinced 
 that my food was poisoned ; together with ten thousand 
 meagrims of the same stamp." 
 
 And in 1787 he tells Mr. Newton, that, on recovering 
 from his illness of that year, he finds that another delusion 
 has vanished from his mind. He says, — 
 
 " After a long but necessaiy interruption of our corre- 
 spondence I return to it again, better qualified, in one 
 respect, than before ; — I mean, by a behef oi your identity ; 
 which, /or thirteen years, I did not believe. The acquisition 
 of this light releases me from the disagreeable suspicion 
 that T am addressing myself to you as the friend whom I 
 loved and valued so highly in my better days, while in fact 
 you are not that friend, but a stranger^' 
 
 Thus was Cowper consistently in the dark, alike as to 
 his earthly and his heavenly friend. He believed " that 
 Mrs. Unwin hated him ;" — he believed " that Mr. Newton 
 was not the friend whom he had known, but a stranger ;" 
 —and he believed " that He who made him regretted that 
 He had done so." And may we not reasonably hope, that 
 as his earthly friends never once varied in their love for 
 him, in consequence of his strange delusions with respect 
 to them, so neither did his best Friend in heaven ? — for 
 " like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth 
 them that fear Him." 
 
 We have said that Cowper was submissive and obedient 
 throughout. We detect no variation in his belief; — no 
 repining, no rebelUous feeling. Two doubts only have been
 
 CONCLUSION, 233 
 
 started, as to the consistency of his course : Tlic first, as to 
 his mingling too much, in the latter part of his hfe, in the 
 society of fashionable and worldly people ; — the second, as 
 to his lengthened labour upon Homer. 
 
 We apprehend that the same apology applies to both. 
 Deeming himself cut oft' from spiritual enjoyments and 
 Christian occupations, and finding his mind agonized by 
 melancholy thoughts, he was " driven," as he says, to the 
 nearest occupation, not unlawful, in order to divert his 
 mind from preying on itself. Thus he tells ]\Ir. Newton, 
 " Being one day in such distress of raind as was hardly 
 supjiortable, I took up the Iliad; and, merely to divert 
 attention, translated the first twelve lines of it. The same 
 necessity pressing me again, I translated more ; thus every 
 day added something to the work." 
 
 And one circumstance ought always to be borne in 
 mind in connexion with this translation of the heathen 
 poet, that its character, after all, proves that it was the real 
 " Taskr While, in his own verses, he soared, mounted, 
 and glowed, — in his translation he grovelled on the earth. 
 " Whatever," says the Edinburgh Reviewer, " may be the 
 fire and force of particular jjassages, they are separated by 
 weary tracts of unenlivened prose, and a languor and 
 sluggishness hang over gi'eat part of the performance." 
 The failure, therefore, which is generally ascribed to this 
 work, may reasonably be attribvited to the fact, that it was 
 to him merely " an occupation," to which he felt himself 
 " driven." 
 
 The life, then, which we have just been reviewing may 
 be thus described : — 
 
 The first thirty years were passed in school employ- 
 ments and amusements, and in literary idling. A gentle- 
 man by birth and education, — amiable, but a triflcr, — almost 
 half his life had glided away before he had seriously asked 
 himself for what purpose he was living. Meanwhile, how- 
 ever, two attacks of melancholy had shown that " his mind 
 was predisposed to hypochondria, from some mystery of 
 its original oi-ganisatiou." 
 
 At last there came a crisis. His appointment to a high 
 and responsible office threw a burden on him which he was
 
 234 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 unable to bear. His mind gave way under the pressure, 
 and a brain-fever consigned him to the care of a physician, 
 in whose charge he remained for more than a year. 
 
 In this retirement, he himself tells us that he first 
 sufifered remorse and despair ; and after a while, in the use 
 of God's word, he received a cure. He was enabled to 
 repent and believe the Gospel, and soon became full of joy 
 and peace in believing. 
 
 For eight years after this we find him leading a calm 
 and peaceful life. We may give his own description of it 
 in these well-known lines : — 
 
 " Far from the world, Lord, I flee, 
 From stiife and tumult far ; 
 From scenes where Satan wages still 
 His most successful war. 
 
 The calm retreat, the silent shade, 
 
 With prayer and praise agree ; 
 And seem, by thy sweet bounty, made 
 
 For those who follow thee. 
 
 There, if thy Spirit touch the soul, 
 
 And grace her mean abode. 
 Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love, 
 
 She communes with her God! 
 
 There like the nightingale she pours 
 
 Her solitary lays ; 
 Nor asks a witness of her song, 
 
 Nor thirsts for human praise. 
 
 Author and Guardian of my life, 
 
 Sweet source of light divine. 
 And (all harmonious names in one) 
 My Saviour, thou art mine ! 
 
 What thanks I owe thee, and what love ! 
 
 A boundless, endless store, 
 Shall echo througli tlie realms above 
 
 When tune shall be no more." 
 
 After this, we hear of no departure on his part from 
 God ; although, had such declension taken place, his friend
 
 CONCLUSION. 235 
 
 Mr. Newton would have surely seen, and would have 
 recorded it. Nor did God reject him. " llie Lord, the God 
 of Israel, saith, that he hateth putting away''' " The gifts 
 and calling of God are without repentanceV 
 
 Still his mental ailment, such as he had thrice before 
 experienced, rctui-ned upon him. Dreadful anguish seized 
 him. " The fear of death came upon him, and an horrible 
 dread overwhelmed him." For more than one year he 
 suflfered intensely ; then his disease gradually abated, till, 
 after a time, he became able to write, and was then in- 
 duced to take up the pen. 
 
 And now comes forth to light, the Christian Poet. 
 Between December 1780 and August 1784 the great business 
 of his life was accomplished. In about three years and a-half 
 all his longer and more serious poems were written. In less 
 than one year he composed The Task, — " that monument," 
 says Southey, "which, though not loftier than the Pyra- 
 mids, will more surely perpetuate its author's name than 
 those eldest of human works have handed down the his- 
 tory of their founders." So short a period did it require 
 to fulfil the great business of his life ! Tlie first thirty 
 years of his existence had been wasted ; the last fifteen 
 •were to be passed in melancholy, and in unproductive 
 translations. The work he was sent into the world to do, 
 was done in this short portion of the middle of his existence. 
 
 And, while this duty was before him, his life, though 
 overclouded by fear, was not a life of suffering. " It is 
 consolatory to believe," says Southey, " that, during this 
 long stage of his malady, Cowper was rarely so miserable 
 as he represented himself to be. Though his disease of 
 mind settled at last into the deepest shade, and ended in 
 the very blackness of darkness, it is not less certain that, 
 before it reached that point, it allowed him many years 
 of moral and intellectual enjoyment." 
 
 Still, as advancing age told upon his frame, and as his 
 dearest friends were removed by death, or disabled by 
 infirmity, his malady took a firmer hold, and gradually 
 gained the entire ascendancy. All this is merely the na- 
 tural order of events, and adds nothing to the original 
 mystery, — Why a once happy Christian should be left to
 
 236 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 wander in such darkness ? And this is merely a single 
 point of the great mystery of life ; the understanding of 
 which, in our present state, is denied to us, and no doubt 
 wisely denied, inasmuch as it is, in itself, beyond our 
 powers. 
 
 The most consolatory thought, however, connected with 
 this mystery, is that which St. Paul so wonderfully con- 
 denses into a few brief words : " Our light affliction, which is 
 but for a moment, worketh out for us a far more exceeding 
 and eternal weight of glory T How does the Apostle here 
 strain human language to the uttermost, to express what, 
 after all, is inexpressible, — the infinite discrepancy between 
 a few brief years, spent on earth in pain or in sadness, — 
 and the eternity which is to follow, at " His right hand, 
 where ai'e pleasures for evermore ! " 
 
 The connexion, indeed, the hovi it is, that this " light 
 affliction" should " work out a weight of glory," is at 
 present hidden from us. " Like children looking out from 
 their nursery-window," we see but by portions, and under- 
 stand but little of what we do see. This is a necessary 
 consequence of our present condition. We cannot desire 
 to be " as gods, knowing good and evil," without being in 
 danger of the original temptation. But we may rest on a 
 promise, explicit as language can make it, and firm as the 
 foundations of the everlasting liilLs, — 
 
 " All things shall work together for good to them that love 
 God, to them irho are the called according to his purposed 
 
 That Cowper was one of those who had been enabled, 
 by Divine grace, to " love God," will be doubted by no 
 candid reader of the narrative which wiU be given in the 
 Appendix. And the conclusion is inevitable. His suf- 
 ferings, even, must have been among the "all things;" 
 and he himself would not, now, wish to have been without 
 them.
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 I CAisTN'OT recollect that, till the month of December, in 
 the thirty-second year of my life, I had ever any serious 
 impressions of the religious kind, or at all bethought my- 
 self of the things of my salvation, except in two or three 
 instances. The first was of so transitory a natui'e, and 
 passed when I was so very young, that, did I not intend 
 what follows for a history of my heart, so far as religion 
 has been its object, I should hardly mention it. 
 
 At six years old I was taken from the nursery, and 
 from the immediate cai'e of a most indulgent mother, and 
 sent to a considerable school in Bedfordshire. Here I had 
 hardships of difierent kinds to conflict with, which I felt 
 more sensibly in proportion to the tenderness with which 
 I had been treated at home. But my chief affliction con- 
 sisted in my being singled out from ail the other boys, by 
 a lad about fifteen years of age, as a proper object upon 
 whom he might let loose the cruelty of his temper. I 
 choose to forbear a particular recital of the many acts of 
 barbarity with which he made it his business continually 
 to persecute me : it will be sufficient to say that he had, 
 by his savage treatment of me, impressed such a dread of 
 his figiu'e upon my mind, that I well remember being 
 afraid to lift up my eyes upon him higher than his knees, 
 and that I knew him by his shoe-buckles better than any
 
 238 APPENDIX. 
 
 other part of his dress. May the Lord i^ardon him, and 
 may we meet in glory ! 
 
 One day, as I was sitting alone on a bench in the 
 school, melancholy, and ahnost ready to weep at the recol- 
 lection of what I had already suflfered, and expecting at the 
 same time my tormentor every moment, these words of 
 the Psalmist came into my mind, " I will not be afraid of 
 what man can do unto me." I ai^plied this to my own 
 case, with a degree of trust and confidence in God, that 
 would have been no disgrace to a much more experienced 
 Christian. Instantly I perceived in myself a briskness of 
 spirits, and a cheerfulness which I had never before ex- 
 perienced ; and took several paces up and down the room 
 with joyful alacrity, — his gift in whom I trusted. Happy 
 had it been for me, if this early effort towards a dependence 
 on the blessed God had been frequently repeated by me. 
 But, alas ! it was the first and last instance of the kind 
 between infancy and manhood. The cruelty of this boy, 
 which he had long practised in so secret a manner that 
 no creature suspected it, was at length discovered. He was 
 expelled from the school, and I was taken from it. 
 
 From hence, at eight years old, I was sent to Mr. D., an 
 eminent surgeon and oculist, ha\'ing very weak eyes, and 
 being in danger of losing one of them. I continued a year 
 in this family, where religion was neither known nor prac- 
 tised ; and from thence was dispatched to Westminster, 
 Whatever seeds of religion I might carry thither, before 
 my seven years' apprenticeship to the classics was expired 
 they were all man-ed and corrupted ; the duty of the 
 schoolboy swallowed up every other ; and I acquired Latin 
 and Greek at the expense of a knowledge much more im- 
 portant. 
 
 Here occurred the second instance of serious considera- 
 tion. As I was crossing St. Margaret's churchyard late one 
 evening, I saw a glimmering light in the midst of it, which 
 excited my curiosity. Just as I arrived at tlie spot, a 
 gi'ave-digger, who was at work by the Ught of his lanthorn, 
 threw up a skull, which struck me upon the leg. This 
 little accident was an alarm to my conscience ; for that 
 event may be numbered among the best rehgious docu-
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 239 
 
 ments which I received at Westminster. Tlie impression, 
 however, presently went oft" ; and I became so forgetful of 
 mortality, that, strange as it may seem, surveying my 
 activity and strength, and observing the evenness of my 
 pulse, I began to entertain, with no small complacency, a 
 notion that, perhaps, I might never die ! This notion was, 
 however, very short-lived ; for I loas soon after struck with 
 a lowness of spirits uncommon at my age, and frequently 
 had intimations of a consumptive habit. I had skill 
 enough to understand their meaning, but could never pre- 
 vail on myself to disclose them to any one ; for I thought 
 any bodily infirmity a disgrace, especially a consumption. 
 This messenger from the Lord, however, did his errand, 
 and perfectly convinced me that I was mortal. 
 
 That I may do justice to the place of my education, I 
 must relate one mark of religious discipline, which, in my 
 time, was observed at Westminster ; I mean, the pains 
 which Dr. Nicholls took to prepare us for confirmation. 
 The old man acquitted himself of his duty like one who 
 had a deep sense of its importance ; and I believe most of 
 us were struck by his manner, and affected by his exhort- 
 ation. For my own part, I then, for the first time, at- 
 tempted prayer in secret ; but being little accustomed to 
 that exercise of the heart, and having very childish notions 
 of religion, I found it a difiicult and painful task, and was 
 even then frightened at my own insensibility. This difd- 
 culty, though it did not subdue my good purposes till the 
 ceremony of confirmation was past, soon after entirely 
 conquered them ; I relapsed into a total forgetfulness of 
 God, with the usual disadvantage of being more hardened, 
 for having been softened to no purpose. 
 
 At twelve or thirteen I was seized with the small-pox. 
 I only mention this to show that, at that early age, my 
 heart was become proof against the ordinaiy means which 
 a gracious God employs for our chastisement. Though I 
 was severely handled by the disease, and in imminent 
 danger, yet neither in the course of it, nor during my 
 recovery, had I any sentiment of contrition, any thought 
 of God or eternity. On the contrary, I was scarcely raised 
 from the bed of pain and sickness, before the emotions of
 
 .240 APPENDIX. 
 
 sin became more violent in me than ever ; and Satan 
 seemed rather to have gained than lost an advantage, so 
 readily did I admit his suggestions, and so passive was I 
 under them. 
 
 By this time 1 became such an adept in falsehood, that 
 I was seldom guilty of a fault for which I could not, at a 
 very short notice, invent an apology, capable of deceiving 
 the wisest. These, I know, are caUed schoolboys' tricks ; 
 but a sad depravity of principle, and the work of the father 
 of lies, are universally at the bottom of them. 
 
 At the age of eighteen, being tolerably furnished with 
 grammatical knowledge, but as ignorant in all points of 
 religion as the satchel at my back, I was taken from West- 
 minster ; and, having spent about nine months at home, 
 was sent to acquire the practice of the law with an attorney. 
 There I might have lived and died, without hearing or 
 seeing anj-thing that might remind me of a single Christian 
 duty, had it not been that I was at liberty to spend my 
 leisure time (which was well-nigh all my time) at my 
 uncle's, in Southampton Kow. By this means I had, indeed, 
 an opportunity of seeing the inside of a church, whither I 
 went with the family on Sundays, which, probably, I should 
 otherwise never have seen. 
 
 At the expiration of this term I became, in a manner, 
 complete master of myself ; and took possession of a com- 
 plete set of chambers in the Temple, at the age of twenty- 
 one. This being a critical season of my life, and one upon 
 which much depended, it pleased my all-merciful Father in 
 Jesus Clirist to give a check to my rash and ruinous career 
 of wickedness at the very onset. / u-as struck, not long 
 after m_y settlement in the Temple, with such a dejection of 
 spirits, as none but they who have felt the same can have the 
 least conception of. Day and night I was upon the rack, 
 lying doiim in horror, and rising up in despair. I presently 
 lost all relish for those studies to which I had before been 
 closely attached ; the classics had no longer any charms 
 for me ; I had need of something more salutary than 
 amusement, but I had no one to direct me where to 
 fmd it. 
 
 At length I met with Herbert's Poems ; and, gothic and
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 241 
 
 uncouth as they were, I yet found in them a strain of 
 piety which I coukl not but admire. This was the only 
 author I had any dehght in reading. I pored over him all 
 day long ; and though I found not here, what I might have 
 found, a cure for my malady, yet it never seemed so much 
 alleviated as while I was reading him. At length I was 
 advised by a very near and dear relative to lay him aside ; 
 for he thought such an author more likely to nourish my 
 disorder than to remove it. 
 
 In this state of mind I continued near a twelvenaonth ; 
 when, having experienced the inefficacy of all human means, 
 I at length betook myself to God in prayer : such is the 
 rank whicli our Redeemer holds in our esteem, never re- 
 sorted to but in the last instance, when all creatures have 
 failed to succour us. My hard heart was at length soft- 
 ened, and my stubborn knees brought to bow. I composed 
 a set of prayers, and made frequent use of them. Weak 
 as my faith was, the Almighty, who will not break the 
 bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax, was graciously 
 pleased to hear me. 
 
 A change of scene was recommended to me ; and I 
 embniced an opportunity of going with some friends to 
 Southampton, where I spent several months. Soon after 
 our arrival we walked to a place called Freemantle, about 
 a mile from the town ; the morning was clear and calm, 
 the sun shone bright upon the sea, and the country on the 
 borders of it was the most beautiful I had ever seen. We 
 sat down upon an eminence, at the end of the arm of the 
 sea which nuis between Southampton and the New Forest. 
 Here it was that, on a sudden, as if another sun had been 
 kindled that instant in the heavens, on purpose to dispel 
 sorrow and vexation of spirit, I felt the weight of aU my 
 miser}' taken oft', my heart became light and joyfiU in a 
 moment ; I could have wept with transport had I been 
 alone. I must needs believe that nothing less than the 
 Almighty fiat could have filled me with such inexpressible 
 delight ; not by a gradual dawning of peace, but, as it 
 were, with a flash of his life-giving countenance. I think I 
 remember something like a glow of gi-atitude to the Father 
 of mercies for this imexpccted blessing, and that I ascribed 
 
 R
 
 242 APPENDIX. 
 
 it to his gracious acceptance of my prayers. But Satan 
 and my own wicked heart quickly persuaded me that I 
 was indebted for my deliverance to nothing but a change 
 of scene and the amusing varieties of the place. By this 
 means he turned the blessing into a poison ; teaching me 
 to conclude that nothing but a continued circle of diver- 
 sion, and indulgence of appetite, could secure me from a 
 relapse. 
 
 Upon this false principle, as soon as I returned to 
 London I burnt my prayers, and away went all thoughts 
 of devotion and dependence upon God my Saviour. Surely 
 it was of his mercy that I was not consumed — glory be to 
 his grace ! Two deliverances from danger not making any 
 impression, having spent about twelve years in the Temple, 
 in an uninterrupted course of sinful indulgence, and my 
 associates and companions being either, like myself, pro- 
 fessed Christians or professed infidels, I obtained, at length, 
 so complete a victory over my conscience, that all remon- 
 strances from that quarter were in vain, and, in a manner, 
 silenced ; though sometimes, indeed, a question would 
 arise in my mind, whether it were safe to proceed any 
 farther in a course so j^lainly and utterly condemned in 
 the word of God. I saw clearly that, if the Gospel Avere 
 true, such a conduct must inevitably end in my destruc- 
 tion ; but I saw not by what means I could change my 
 Ethiopian comi)lexion, or overcome such an inveterate habit 
 of rebelling against God. 
 
 The next thing that occurred to me, was a doubt whether 
 the Gospel were true or false. To this succeeded many an 
 anxious wish for the decision of this important question ; 
 for I foolishly thought that obedience would presently follow, 
 were I but convinced that it was worth while to attempt 
 it. Having no reason to expect a miracle, and not hoping 
 to be satisfied with anything less, I acquiesced, at length, 
 in the force of that devilish conclusion, that the only course 
 I could take to secure my present peace was to wink hard 
 against the prospect of future misery, and to resolve to 
 banish all thoughts of a subject upon which I thought to 
 so little purpose. Nevertheless, when I was in the com- 
 pany of deists, and heard the Gospel blasphemed, I never
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 243 
 
 failed to assert the truth of it with much vehemence of 
 disputation ; for which I was the better (jualitied, having 
 been always an industrious and diligent inciuirer into the 
 evidences by which it was externally supported. I think I 
 once went so far into a controversy of this kind, as to 
 assert that I would gladly submit to have my right hand 
 cut off, so that I might but be enabled to live according to 
 the Gospel. Thus have I been employed, when half intoxi- 
 cated, in vindicating the truth of Scripture, while in the 
 very act of rebellion against its dictates. Lamentable in- 
 consistency of a convinced judgment with an unsanctified 
 heart ! An inconsistency, indeed, evident to others as 
 well as to myself ; inasmuch as a deistical friend of mine, 
 witli whom I was disputing upon the subject, cut short the 
 matter by alleging that, if wliat I said were true, I was cer- 
 tainly lost by my own showing. 
 
 By this time, my patrimony being well-nigh spent, and 
 there being no appearance that I should ever repair the 
 damage by a fortune of my own getting, I began to be a 
 little aj^prehensive of approaching want. It was, I imagine, 
 under some apprehensions of this kind, that I one day said 
 to a friend of mine. If the clerk to the journals of the 
 House of Lords should die, I had some hopes that my 
 kinsman, who had the place in his disposal, would appoint 
 me to succeed him. We both agreed that the business of 
 that place, being transacted in private, would exactly suit 
 me. Thus did I covet what God had commanded me not 
 to covet. It pleased the Lord to gi^'e me my heart's desire, 
 and with it an immediate punishment for my crime. The 
 man died, and, by his death, not only the clerkship of the 
 journals became vacant, but it became necessary to appoint 
 officers to two other ])laces, jointly, as deputies to Mr. De 
 Grey, who at this time resigned. These were the office of 
 reading clerk, and the clerk.ship of the committees, of much 
 greater value than that of the journals. The patentee of 
 these appointments (whom I pray to God to bless foi- his 
 benevolent intention to serve me) called on me at my 
 chambers, and, having invited me to take a tvu'ii with him 
 in the garden, there made me an offer of the two most pre 
 fitable places ; intending the other for his friend Mr. A.
 
 244 APPENDIX. 
 
 Dazzled by so splendid a proposal, and not immediately 
 reflecting upon my incapacity to execute a business of so 
 public a nature, I at once accepted it ; but at the same 
 time (such was the will of Him whose hand was in the 
 whole matter) seemed to receive a dagger in my heart. 
 The wound ivus given, and every moment added to the smart 
 of it. All the considerations, by which I endeavoured to 
 compose my mind to its former tranquillity, did but tor- 
 ment me the more ; proving miserable comforters and 
 counsellors of no value. I returned to my chambers 
 thoughtful and unhappy ; my countenance fell ; and my 
 friend was astonished, instead of that additional cheerful- 
 ness he might so reasonably expect, to find an air of deep 
 melancholy in all I said or did. 
 
 Having been harassed in this manner by day and night 
 for the space of a week, perplexed between the apparent 
 folly of casting away the only visible chance I had of being 
 well provided for and the impossibility of retaining it, I 
 determined at length to write a letter to my friend, though 
 he lodged in a manner at the next door, and we generally 
 spent the day together. I did so, and therein begged him 
 to accept my resignation, and to appoint Mr. A. to the 
 places he had given me ; and permit me to succeed Mr. A. 
 I was well aware of the dispro2:)oi"tion between the value of 
 his appointment and mine ; but my peace was gone ; pecu- 
 niary advantages were not equivalent to what I had lost ; 
 and I flattered myself that the clerkship of the journals 
 would fiill fairly and easily within the scope of my abilities. 
 Like a man in fever, I thought a change of posture would 
 relieve my pain ; and, as the event will show, was equally 
 disappointed. At length I carried my point ; my friend, in 
 this instance, preferring the gratification of my desires to 
 his own interest : for nothing could be so likely to bring a 
 suspicion of bargain and sale upon his nomination, which 
 the Lords would not have endured, as his appointment of 
 so near a relative to the least profitable office, while the 
 most valuable was allotted to a stranger. 
 
 The matter being thus settled, something like a calm 
 took place in my mind. I was, indeed, not a little con- 
 cerned about my character ; being aware that it must
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 245 
 
 needs suffer by the strange appearance of my proceeding. 
 This, however, being but a small part of the anxiety I had 
 laboured under, was hardly felt when the rest was taken off". 
 I thought my path to an easy maintenance was now plain 
 and open, and for a day or two was tolerably cheerful. 
 But, behold, the storm was gathering all the while ; and 
 the fury of it was not the less violent for this gleam of 
 sunshine. 
 
 In the beginning, a strong opposition to my friend's 
 right of nomination began to show itself A poweiful party 
 was formed among the Lords to thwart it, in favovir of an 
 old enenij' of the family, though one much indebted to its 
 bounty ; and it appeared plain that, if we succeeded at 
 last, it would only be by fighting our ground by inches. 
 Every advantage, I was told, would be sought for, and 
 eagerly seized, to disconcert us. I was bid to expect 
 an examination at the bar of the House, touching my 
 sufficiency for the post I had taken. Being necessarily 
 ignorant of the nature of that business, it became ex- 
 pedient that I should \'isit the office daily, in order to 
 qualify myself for the strictest scrutiny. All the horror 
 of my fears and perplexities now returned. A thunderbolt 
 would have been as welcome to me as this iuteUigence. 
 I knew, to demonstration, that upon these terms the clerk- 
 ship of the journals was no place for me. To require my 
 attendance at the bar of the House, that I might there 
 publicly entitle myself to the office, was, in effect, to ex- 
 clude me from it. In the meantime, the interest of my 
 friend, the honour of his choice, my own reputation and 
 circumstances, all urged me forward ; all pressed me to 
 ixndertake that which I saw to be impracticable. They 
 vdiose spirits arc formed like mine, to whom a public exhi- 
 bition of themselves, on any occasion, is mortal poison, may 
 have some idea of the horrors of my situation ; others can 
 have none. 
 
 My continual misery at length brought on a nervous 
 fever : quiet forsook me by day, and peace by night ; a 
 finger raised against me was more than I could stand 
 against. In this posture of mind, I attended regularly at 
 the office ; where, instead of a soul upon the rack, the most
 
 246 APPENDIX. 
 
 active spirits were essentially necessary for my purpose. I 
 expected no assistance from anybody there, all the inferior 
 clerks being under the influence of my opponent ; and 
 accordingly I received none. The journal books were 
 indeed thrown open to me, — a thing which could not be 
 refused ; and from which, perhaps, a man in health, and 
 with a head turned to business, might have gained all the 
 information he wanted ; but it was not so with me. I read 
 without perception, and was so distressed, that, had every 
 clerk in the office been my friend, it could have availed me 
 little ; for I was not in a condition to receive instruction, 
 much less to elicit it out of manuscripts, without direction. 
 Many months went over me thus employed ; constant in 
 the use of means, despairing as to the issue. 
 
 The feelings of a man, when he arrives at the place of 
 execution, are, probably, much like mine, every time I set 
 my foot in the office, which was every day, for more than 
 half a year together. 
 
 At length, the vacation being pretty far advanced, I 
 made a shift to get into the country, and repaired to Mar- 
 gate. There, by the help of cheeiful company, a new 
 scene, and the intermission of luy painful employment, I 
 presently began to I'ecover my spirits ; though even here, 
 for some time after my ai'rival (notwithstanding, perhaps, 
 that the preceding day had lieen spent agreeably, and with- 
 out any disturbing recollection of nay circumstances), my 
 first reflections, when I awoke in the morning, were horrible 
 and full of wretchedness. I looked forward to the ap- 
 proaching winter, and regretted the flight of every moment 
 which brought it nearer ; like a man borne away by a rapid 
 torrent into a stormy sea, whence he sees no possibility of 
 retui-ning, and where he knows he cannot subsist. At 
 length, indeed, I acquired such a facility of turning away 
 my thoughts from the ensuing crisis, that, for weeks to- 
 gether, I haixlly adverted to it at all ; but the stress of the 
 tempest was yet to come, and was not to be avoided by 
 any resolution of mine to look another way. 
 
 " How wonderful are the works of the Lord, and his 
 ways past finding out !" Thus was he preparing me for an 
 event, which I least of all expected, even the reception of
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 247 
 
 his blessed Gosjiel, working by means which, in all human 
 contemplation, must needs seem directly opposite to that 
 purpose, but which, in his wise and gracious dis^josal, have, 
 I trust, effectually accomplished it. 
 
 About the beginning of October, 1763, I was again 
 required to attend the office and prepare for the push. 
 This no sooner took place, than all my misery returned ; 
 " again I visited the scene of ineffectual labours ; again I 
 felt myself pressed by necessity on either side, with nothing 
 but despair in prospect. To this dilemma was I reduced, 
 either to keep possession of the office to the last extremity, 
 and by so doing expose myself to a public rejection for 
 insufficiency ; (for the little knowledge I had acquired 
 would have quite forsaken me at the bar of the House) ; or 
 else to fling it up at once, and by this means run the 
 hazard of ruining my benefactor's right of appointment, by 
 bringing his discretion into question. In this situation, 
 such a fit of passion has sometimes seized me, when alone 
 in my chambers, that I have cried out aloud, and cursed 
 the hour of my birth ; lifting up my eyes to heaven, at the 
 same time, not as a supplicant, but in the spirit of re- 
 proach against my Maker. A thought would sometimes 
 come across my mind, that my sins had perhaps brought 
 this distress upon me, that the hand of Divine vengeance 
 was in it ; but in the pride of my heart I presently ac- 
 quitted myself, and thereby implicitly charged God with 
 injustice, saying, " What sins have I committed to deserve 
 this ?" 
 
 I saw plainly that God alone could deliver me ; but was 
 firmly persuaded that he would not, and therefore omitted 
 to ask it. Indeed, at his hands, I would not ; but as Saul 
 sought to the witch, so did I to the physician, Dr. Heberden ; 
 and was as diligent in the use of drugs, as if they would 
 have healed my wounded spirit, or have made the rough 
 lilaces plain before me. I made, indeed, one effort of a 
 devotional kind ; for, having found a prayer or two, I said 
 them a few nights, but with so Uttle expectation of pi'e- 
 vailiiig that way, that I soon laid aside the book, and with 
 it all thoughts of God and hopes of a remedy. 
 
 I now began to look upon madness as the only chance
 
 248 APPEXDIX. 
 
 remaining. I had a strong kind of foreboding that so it 
 would one day fare with me ; and I wished for it earnestly, 
 and looked forward to it with impatient expectation. My 
 chief fear was, that my senses would not fail me time 
 enough to excuse my appearance at the bar of the House of 
 Lords, which was the only purpose I wanted it to answer. 
 Accordingly, the day of decision drew near, and I was still 
 in my senses ; though in my heart I had formed many 
 wishes, and by word of mouth expressed many expectations 
 to the contrary. 
 
 ISTow came the grand temptation ; the point to which 
 Satan had all the while been driving me. I grew more 
 sullen and reserved, fled from all society, even from my 
 most intimate friends, and shut myself up in my chambers. 
 The ruin of my fortune, the contempt of my I'elations and 
 acquaintance, the i^rejudice I should do my patron, were all 
 urged on me with irresistible energy. Being reconciled to 
 the apprehension of madness, I began to be reconciled to 
 the apprehension of death. Though formerly, in my 
 happiest hours, I had never been able to glance a single 
 thought that way, without shuddering at the idea of disso- 
 lution, I now wished for it, and found myself but little 
 shocked at the idea of procuring it myself. I considered 
 life as my property, and therefoi-e at my own disposal. 
 Men of great name, I observed, had destroyed themselves ; 
 and the world still retained the profoundest respect for 
 their memories. 
 
 But above all, I was persuaded to believe, that if the 
 act were ever so unlawful, and even supposing Christianity 
 to be true, my misery in hell itself would be more sup- 
 portable. I well recollect, too, that when I was about eleven 
 years of age, my father desired me to read a vindication of 
 self-murder, and give him my sentiments upon the ques- 
 tion : I did so, and argued against it. My father heard my 
 reasons, and was silent, neither appro vi;ig nor disapproving ; 
 from whence I inferred that he sided with the author 
 against me : though all the time, I believe, the true motive 
 for his conduct was, that he wanted, if he could, to think 
 favourably of the state of a departed friend, who had some 
 years before destroyed himself, and whose death had struck
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 249 
 
 him with the deepest affliction. But this sohition of the 
 matter never once occurred to me, aud the cu'cumstance 
 now weighed mightily with me. 
 
 At this time I fell into company, at a chop-honse, with 
 an elderly, well-looking gentleman, whom I had often seen 
 there before, but had never spoken to. He began the dis- 
 course, and talked much of the miseries he had suffered. 
 This opened my heart to him ; I freely and readily took 
 part in the conversation. At length, self-murder became 
 the topic ; and in the result, we agreed, that the only 
 reason why some men were content to drag on their sor- 
 rows with them to the grave, and others were not, was 
 that the latter were endued with a certain indignant forti- 
 tude of spirit, teaching them to despise life, which the 
 former wanted. Another person, whom I met at a tavern, 
 told me that he had made up his mind about that matter, 
 and had no doubt of his liberty to die as he saw con- 
 venient ; though, by the way, the same person, who has 
 suffered many and great afflictions since, is still alive. 
 Thus were the emissaries of the throne of darkness let loose 
 upon me. Blessed be the Lord, who has brought much 
 good out of all this evil ! This concurrence of sentiment, 
 in men of sense, unknown to each other, I cmsidered as a 
 satisfactory decision of the question, and determined to 
 proceed accordingly. 
 
 One evening in November, 1763, as soon as it was dark, 
 aff'ecting as cheerful and unconcerned an air as possible, I 
 went into an apothecary's shop, and asked for an half- 
 ounce phial of laudanum. The man seemed to observe me 
 narrowly ; but if he did, I managed my voice and coun- 
 tenance so as to deceive him. The day that I'equired my 
 attendance at the bar of the House being not yet come, 
 and about a week distant, I kept my bottle close in my 
 side-pocket, resolved to use it when I should be convinced 
 there was no other way of escaping. This, indeed, seemed 
 evident already ; but I was willing to allow myself every 
 possible chance of that sort, and to protract the horrid 
 execution of my purpose till the last moment ; but Satan 
 was impatient of delay. 
 
 The day before the period above-mentioned arrived,
 
 250 APPENDIX. 
 
 being at Richai'ds' coffee-house at breakfast, I read the 
 newspaper, and in it a lettei', wliich the further I perused 
 itj the more closely engaged my attention. I cannot now 
 recoUect the purport of it ; but before I had finished it, it 
 appeared deraoustratively true to me that it was a libel or 
 satire upon me. The author appeared to be acquainted 
 with my purpose of self-destruction, and to have written 
 that letter on purpose to secure and hasten the execution 
 of it. My mind, probably, at this time, began to be dis- 
 ordered ; however it was, I was certainly given up to a 
 strong delusion. I said within myself, " Your cruelty shall 
 be gratified ; you shall have your revenge ! " and, flinging 
 down the paper, in a fit of strong passion, I rushed hastily 
 out of the room ; directing my way towards the fields, 
 where I intended to find some house to die in ; or if not, 
 determined to poison myself in a ditch, when I could meet 
 with one sufficiently retired. 
 
 Before I had walked a mile in the fields, a thought 
 struck that I might yet spare my life ; that I had nothing 
 to do, but to sell what I had in the funds, (which might be 
 done in an hour,) go on board a ship and transport myself 
 to France. There, when every other way of maintenance 
 should fail, I promised myself a comfortable asylum in 
 some monastery, — an acquisition easily made by changing 
 my religion. Not a little pleased with this expedient, I 
 returned to my chambers to pack up all that I could at 
 so short a notice ; but while I was looking over my port- 
 manteau, my mind changed again ; and self-murder was 
 recommended to me once more in all its advantages. 
 
 Not knowing where to poison myself, for I was liable 
 to continual interruption in my chambers, from my laun- 
 dress and her husband, I laid aside that intention, and 
 resolved upon drowning. For that purpose I imme- 
 diately took a coach, and ordered the man to drive to 
 Tower Wharf ; intending to throw myself into the river 
 from the Custom House Quay. It would be strange, 
 should I omit to observe here, how I was continually 
 hurried away from such places as were most favourable to 
 my design, to others, where .it must be almost impossible 
 to execute it ; — from the fields, where it was improbable
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 261 
 
 that anytliiug should ha})pcn to prevent me, to the Custom 
 House C^ua}', where everythiug of that kiud was to be 
 expected ; and this by a sudden impulse, which lasted just 
 long enough to call me back again to my chambers, and 
 was innncdiately withdrawn. Nothing ever appeared more 
 feasible than the project of going to Finance, till it had 
 served its purpose, and then, in an instant, it ai)peared 
 impi'acticable and absurd, even to a degree of ridicule. 
 
 My life, which I had called my own, and claimed a right 
 to dispose of, was kept for me by him whose property 
 indeed it was, and who alone had a right to tlispose of it. 
 This is not the only occasion on which it is proper to 
 make this remark ; others will offer themselves, in the 
 course of this narrative, so fairly, that the reader cannot 
 overlook them. 
 
 I left the coach upon the Tower Wharf, intending never 
 to return to it ; but upon coming to the quay, I found the 
 water low, and a porter seated upon some goods there, as if 
 on purpose to prevent me. This passage to the bottomless 
 pit being mercifully shut against me, I returned back to 
 the coach, and ordered it to return to the Temple. I drew 
 up the shutters, once more had recourse to the laudanum, 
 and determined to drink it off directly ; but God had 
 otherwise ordained. A conflict, that shook me to pieces, 
 suddenly took place ; not properly a trcinbhug, but a con- 
 \Tilsive agitation, which dejarived me in a manner of the 
 use of my limbs : and my mind was as much shaken as my 
 body. 
 
 Distracted between the desire of death and the dread 
 of it, twenty times I had the phial to my mouth, and as 
 often received an irresistible check ; and even at the time 
 it seemed to me that an invisible hand swayed the bottle 
 downwards, as often as I set it against my lips. I well 
 remember that I took notice of this cii'cumstance with 
 some surprise, though it eftected no change in uiy purpose. 
 Panting for breath, ami in an horrible agony, I tiung my- 
 self back into the corner of the coach. A few drops of 
 laudanum which had touched my li[).s, besides the fumes 
 of it, began to have a stupifying effect uj^ou me. Re- 
 gretting the loss of so fair an opportunity, yet utterly
 
 252 APPENDIX, 
 
 unable to avail myself of it, I determined not to live ; and, 
 already half dead with anguish, I once more returned to 
 the Temple. Instantly I repaired to my room, and having 
 shut both the outer and inner door, prepared myself for 
 the last scene of the tragedy. I poured the laudanum into 
 a small basin, set it on a chair by the bedside, half un- 
 dressed myself, and laid down between the blankets, shud- 
 dering with horror at what I was about to perpetrate. I 
 reproached myself bitterly with folly and rank cowardice, 
 for having suffered the fear of death to influence me as it 
 had done, and was filled with disdain at my own pitiful 
 timidity : but still something seemed to overrule me, and 
 to say, "Think what you are doing ! Consider, and live /" 
 
 At length, however, with the most confirmed resolution, 
 I reached forth my hand towards the basin, when the 
 fingers of both hands were as closely contracted, as if 
 bound with a cord, and became entirely useless. Still, in- 
 deed, I could have made shift with both hands, dead and 
 lifeless as they were, to have raised the basin to my mouth 
 for my arms were not at all affected : but this new difficulty 
 struck me with wonder ; it had the air of a Divine inter- 
 position. I lay down in my bed again to muse xipon it, 
 and while thus employed, heard the key turn in the outer 
 door, and my laundress's husband came in. By this time 
 the use of my fingers was restored to me : I started up 
 hastily, dressed myself, hid the basin, and aflfecting as com- 
 posed an air as I could, walked out into the dining-room. 
 In a few minutes I was left alone ; and now, unless God 
 had evidently interposed for my preservation, I should 
 cei'tainly have done execution upon myself, having a whole 
 afternoon before me. 
 
 Both the man and his wife having gone out, outward 
 obstructions were no sooner removed than new ones arose 
 within. The man had just shut the door behind him, 
 when the convincing Spirit came ujion me, and a total 
 alteration in my sentiments took place. Tlie horror of 
 the crime was immediately exhibited to me in so strong a 
 light, that, being seized with a kind of furious indignation, 
 I snatched up the basin, jjoured away the laudanum into a 
 jiliial of foul water, and not content wth that, flung the
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 253 
 
 phial out of tlie window. Tliis impulse, having served the 
 i)rescnt purpose, was withdrawn. 
 
 I spent the rest of the day in a kind of stupid insensi- 
 bility, undetermined as to the manner of dying, but still 
 bent on self-murder, as the only possible deliverance. That 
 sense of tlae enormity of the crime, which I had just 
 experienced, had entirely left me ; and unless my Eternal 
 Father in Christ Jesus had interposed to disannul my 
 covenant with death, and my agreement with hell, that I 
 might hereafter be admitted into the covenant of mercy, 
 I had by this time been a companion with devils, and the 
 just object of his boundless vengeance. 
 
 In the evening, a most intimate friend called upon me, 
 and felicitated me on a happy resolution, which he had 
 heard I had taken, to stand the brunt and keep the office. 
 I knew not whence this intelligence arose, but did not con- 
 tradict it. We conversed awhile, with a real cheerfulness on 
 his part and an affected one on mine ; and when he left me 
 I said in my heart, I shaU see him no more ! 
 
 Behold, into what extremities a good sort of man may 
 fall ! Such was I in the estimation of those who knew me 
 best : a decent outside is all a good-natured world requires. 
 Thus equipped, though all within be rank atheism, rotten- 
 ness of heart, and rebellion against the blessed God, we are 
 said to be good enough ; and if we are damned, alas ! who 
 shall be saved ? Reverse this charitable reflection, and 
 say. If a good sort of man be saved, who then shall perish ? 
 and it comes much nearer the truth : but this is a hard 
 saying, and the world cannot bear it. 
 
 I went to bed to take, as I thought, my last sleep in this 
 world. The next mcn-iiing was to place me at the bar of 
 the House, and I determined not to see it. I slept as 
 usual, and awoke about three o'clock. Immediately I arose, 
 and by the help of a rushlight, found my penknife, took it 
 into bed with me, and lay with it for some hours directly 
 pointed against my heart. Twice or thrice I placed it up- 
 right under my left bi-east, leaning all my weiglit upon it ; 
 but the point was broken off square, and it would not 
 penetrate. 
 
 In this manner the time passed till the day began to
 
 254 APPENDIX. 
 
 break. I heard the clock strike seven, and instantly it 
 occurred to me there was no time to be lost : the chambers 
 would soon be opened, and my friend would call upon me 
 to take me with him to AVestminster. " Now is the time," 
 thought I ; " this is the crisis ; no more dallying with the 
 love of life." I arose, and, as I thought, bolted the inner 
 door of my chambers, but was mistaken ; my touch deceived 
 me, and I left it as I found it. My preservation, indeed, 
 as it will appear, did not depend upon that incident ; but I 
 mention it to show that the good providence of God watched 
 over me, to keep open every way of deliverance, that nothing 
 might be left to hazard. 
 
 Not one hesitating thought now remained, but I fell 
 greedily to the execution of my purpose. My garter was 
 made of a broad piece of scarlet binding, with a sliding 
 buckle, being sewn together at the ends : by the help of 
 the buckle I formed a noose, and fixed it about my neck, 
 straining it so tight that I hardly left a passage for my 
 breath, or for the blood to circulate ; the tongue of the 
 buckle held it fast. At each corner of the bed was placed 
 a wreath of carved work, fastened by an iron pin, which 
 bassed up through the midst of it : the other part of the 
 garter, which made a loop, I slipped over one of these, 
 and hung by it some seconds, drawing up my feet under 
 me, that they might not touch the floor ; but the iron 
 bent, and the carved work slipped of, and the garter with 
 it. I then fastened it to the frame of the tester, winchng 
 it round, and tying it in a strong knot. The frame broke 
 short, and let me down again. 
 
 The third effort was more likely to succeed. I set the 
 door open, which reached within a foot of the ceiling ; by 
 the help of a chair I could command the top of it, and the 
 loop being large enough to admit a large angle of the door, 
 was easily fixed so as not to slip off again. I pushed 
 away the chair with my feet, and hung at my whole length. 
 While I hung there, I distinctly heard a voice say three 
 times, "'Ti.s over/" Though I am sure of the fact, and 
 was so at the time, yet it did not at all alarm me, or affect 
 my resolution. I hung so long that I lost all sense, all 
 consciousness of existence.
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 255 
 
 "When I came to myself again, I tliought m3'self in hell ; 
 the sound of my own dreadful groans was all that I heard, 
 and a feeling like that produced by a flash of lightning 
 just beginning to seize upon me, passed over my whole 
 liody. lu a few seconds I found myself fallen on my face 
 to the floor. In about half a minute I recovered my feet ; 
 and, reeling and staggering, tumbled into bed again. 
 
 By the blessed providence of God, the garter which had 
 held me till the bitterness of temporal death was past, 
 broke just before eternal death had taken place upon me. 
 The stagnation of the blood under one eye, in a broad 
 ci'imson spot, and a red circle round my neck, showed 
 plainly that I had been on the brink of eternity. The latter, 
 indeed, might have been occasioned by the pressure of the 
 garter, but the former was certainly the effect of stran- 
 gulation ; for it was not attended with the sensation of a 
 bruise, as it must have been, had I, in my fall, received one 
 in so tender a part. And I rather think the circle round 
 my neck was owing to the same cause ; for the part was 
 not excoriated, nor at all in pain. 
 
 Soon after I got into bed, I was sur-prised to hear a 
 noi.sc in the dining-room, where the laundress was lighting 
 a fire ; she had found the door unbolted, notwithstanding 
 my design to fasten it, and must have passed the bed- 
 chamber door while I was hanging on it, and yet never 
 perceived me. She heard me fall, and presently came to 
 ask me if I was well ; adding, she feared I had been in a fit. 
 
 I sent her to a friend, to whom I related the whole 
 affair, and dispatched him to my kinsman at the coffee- 
 house. As soon as the latter arrived, I pointed to the 
 broken garter, which lay in the middle of the room ; and 
 apprized him also of the attempt I had l)een making. 
 His words were, " My dear Mr. Cowper, you terrify me ! 
 To be sure you cannot hold the office at this rate, — where 
 is the deputation ?" I gave him the key of the di-awer 
 where it was deposited ; and his business requiring his 
 immediate attendance, he took it away with him ; and 
 thus ended all my connexion with the Parliament office. 
 
 To tliis moment I had felt no concern of a sjjiritual 
 kind. Ignorant of original sin, insensible of the guilt of
 
 256 APPENDIX. 
 
 actual transgression, I understood neither the law nor the 
 gospel ; the condemning nature of the one, nor the restor- 
 ing mercies of the other. I was as much unacquainted 
 with Christ, in all his saving offices, as if his blessed name 
 had never reached me. Now, therefore, a new scene 
 opened upon me. Conviction of sin took place, especially 
 of that just committed ; the meanness of it, as well as its 
 atrocity, was exhibited to me in colours so inconceivably 
 strong, that I despised myself, with a contempt not to be 
 imagined or expressed, for having attempted it. This sense 
 of it secured me from the repetition of a crime which I 
 could not now reflect on without abhorrence. 
 
 Before I arose from bed, it was suggested to me that 
 there was nothing wanted but murder to fill up the measure 
 of my iniquities ; and that, though I had failed in my 
 design, yet I had all the guilt of that crime to answer for. 
 A sense of God's wrath, and a deep despair of escaping it, 
 instantly succeeded. The fear of death became much more 
 prevalent in me than ever the desire of it had been. 
 
 A frequent flashing, like that of fire, before my eyes, 
 and an excessive pressure upon the brain, made me appre- 
 hensive of an apoplexy; an event which I thought the 
 more probable, as an extravasation in that part seemed 
 likely enough to hapisen in so violent a struggle. 
 
 By the advice of my dear friend and benefactor, who 
 called upon me again at noon, I sent for a physician, and 
 told him the fact, and the stroke I apprehended. He assured 
 me there was no danger of it, and advised me by all means 
 to retire into the country. Being made easy in that parti- 
 cular, and not knowing where to better myself, I continued 
 in my chambers, where the solitude of my situation left me 
 at full lil^erty to attend to my spiritual state ; a matter I 
 had till this day never sufficiently thought of. 
 
 At this time I wrote to my brother, at Cambridge, to 
 inform him of the distress I had been in, and the dreadful 
 method I had taken to deliver myself from it ; assuring him, 
 as I faithfully might, that I had laid aside all such horrid 
 intentions, and was desirous to live as long as it would 
 please the Almighty to joermit me. 
 
 My sins were now set in array against me, and I began
 
 PERSOXAL NARRATIVE. 257 
 
 to see and feel that I had lived without God in the world. 
 As I walked to and fro in my chamber, I said within my- 
 self, " There never was so abandoiied a wretch, so great a sin- 
 ner!" All my worldly sorrows seemed as though they had 
 never been ; the terrors which succeeded them seemed so 
 great and so much more afflicting. One moment I thought 
 myself shut out from mercy by one chapter ; the next by 
 another. The sword of the Spirit seemed to guard the tree 
 of hfe from my touch, and to flame against me in every 
 avenue by which I attempted to approach it. I particularly 
 remember, that the parable of the barren fig-tree was to 
 me an inconceivable source of anguish ; and I apphed it 
 to myself, with a strong persuasion in my mind that, when 
 the Saviour pronounced a curse upon it, he had me in his 
 eye, and pointed that curse directly at me. 
 
 I turned over all Archbishop Tillotson's sermons, in 
 hopes to find one upon the subject, and consulted my 
 brother upon the true meaning of it ; desirous, if possible, 
 to obtain a diftercnt interpretation of the matter than my 
 evil conscience would suffer me to fasten on it. " Lord, 
 thou didst vex me with all thy storms, all thy billows went 
 over me ; thou didst run upon me Uke a giant in the night 
 season, thou didst scare me with visions in the night 
 season." 
 
 In every book I opened, I found something that struck 
 me to the heart. I remember taking up a volume of Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher, which lay vipon the table in my kins- 
 man's lodgings, and the first sentence which I saw was this : 
 "The justice of the gods is in it." My heart instantly re- 
 plied, " It is a truth ;" and I cannot but observe, that as I 
 found something in every author to condemn me, so it was 
 the first sentence, in general, I pitched upon. Every thing 
 preached to me, and every thing preached the curse of the 
 law. 
 
 I was now strongly tempted to use laudanum, not as a 
 poison, but as an opiate, to coiapose my spirits ; to stupify 
 my awakened and feeling mind, harassed with sleepless 
 nights and days of uninterrupted misery. But God forbad 
 it, who would have nothing to interfere with the quicken- 
 ing work he had begun in me ; and neither the want of rest, 
 
 S
 
 258 APPENDIX. 
 
 nor continued agony of mind, could bring me to the use of 
 it : I hated and abhorred the very smell of it. 
 
 I never went into the street, but I thought the people 
 stared and laughed at me, and held me in contempt ; and I 
 could hardly pereuade myself, but that the voice of my con- 
 science was loud enough for every one to hear it. They 
 who knew me seemed to avoid me ; and if they spoke to 
 me, they seemed to do it in scorn. I bought a ballad of one 
 who was singing it in the street, because I thought it was 
 written on me. 
 
 I dined alone, either at the tavern, where I went in the 
 dark, or at the chop-house, where I always took care to hide 
 myself in the darkest corner of the room. I slept generally 
 an hour in the evening, but it was only to be terrified in 
 dreams ; and when I awoke, it was some time before I coidd 
 walk steadily through the jjassage into the dining-room. I 
 reeled and staggered like a drunken man. The eyes of man 
 I could not liear ; but when I thought that the eyes of God 
 were upon me, (which I felt assured of,) it gave me the most 
 intolerable anguish. If, for a moment, a book or a com- 
 panion stole away my attention from myself, a flash from 
 heU seemed to be thrown into my mind immediately ; and 
 I said within myself, " What are these things to me, who 
 am damned ?" In a word, I saw myself a sinner altogether, 
 and every way a sinner ; but I saw not yet a glimj^se of the 
 mercy of God in Jesus Christ. 
 
 The capital engine in all the artilleiy of Satan had not 
 yet been employed against me. Already overwhelmed with 
 despair, I was not yet sunk into the bottom of the gulf 
 This was a fit season for the use of it : accordingly I was 
 set to inquire, whether I had not been guilty of the unpar- 
 donable sin ; and was presently persuaded that I had. 
 
 A neglect to improve the mercies of God at Southamp- 
 ton, on the occasion above mentioned, was represented to 
 me as the sin against the Holy Ghost. No favourable con- 
 struction of my conduct in that instance ; no argument of 
 my brother's, who was now with me ; nothing he could 
 suggest in extenuation of my offences, could gain a mo- 
 ment's admission. Satan furnished me so readily with 
 weapons against myself, that neither scrijjture nor reason
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 259 
 
 could undeceive mc. Life appeared to me now more 
 eligible than death, only because it was a barrier between 
 me and everlasting burnings. 
 
 My thoughts in the day became still more gloomy, and 
 my night visions more dreadful. One morning, as I lay 
 between sleeping and waking, I seemed to myself to be 
 walking in Westminster Abbey, waiting till prayers should 
 begin ; presently I thought I heard the minister's voice, 
 and hastened towards the choir : just I was upon the point 
 of entering, the iron gate under the organ was flung in ray 
 face, with a jar that made the Abbey ring ; the noise awoke 
 me ; and a sentence of excommunication from all the 
 churches uj^on the earth could not have been so dreadful 
 to me, as the interpretation which I could not avoid put- 
 ting upon this dream. 
 
 Another time I seemed to pronounce to myself, " Evil, 
 be thou my good." I verily thought that I had adopted 
 that hellish sentiment, it seemed to come so directly from 
 my heart. I arose from bed "to look for my praj^cr-book, 
 and having found it, endeavoured to pray ; but immediately 
 expei'ienced the impossibility of drawing nigh to God, unless 
 he first draw nigh to us. I made many passionate attempts 
 towards prayer, l>ut failed in all. 
 
 Having an obscure notion about the efficacy of faith, I 
 resolved upon an experiment to prove whether I had faith 
 or not. For this purpose, I resolved to repeat the Creed : 
 when I came to the second period of it, all traces of the for- 
 mer were struck out of my memory, nor could I recollect 
 one syllable of the matter. While I endeavoured to recover 
 it, and when just upon the point, I perceived a sensation 
 in my brain, like a ti'emulous vibration in all the fibres of 
 it. By this means I lost the words in the very instant when 
 I thought to have laid hold of them. This threw me into 
 an agony ; but, growing a little calmer, I made an attempt 
 for the third time : here, again, I failed, in the same manner 
 as before. 
 
 I considered it as a supernatural interposition to inform 
 me, that, having sinned against the Holy Ghost, I had no 
 longer any interest in Christ, or in the gifts of the Spirit. 
 Being assured of this, with the most rooted conviction, I
 
 260 APPENDIX. 
 
 gave myself vip to despair. I felt a sense of burning in my 
 heart, like that of real fire, and concluded it was an earnest 
 of those eternal flames which would soon receive me. I 
 laid myself down, howling with horror, while my knees 
 smote against each other. 
 
 In this condition my brother found me, and the first 
 words I spoke to him were, " Oh ! brother, I am lost ! Think 
 of eternity, and then think what it is to be lost !" I had, 
 indeed, a sense of eternity impressed upon my mind, which 
 seemed almost to amount to a full comprehension of it. 
 
 My brother, pierced to the heart with the sight of my 
 misery, tried to comfort me, but all to no jHirpose. I re- 
 fused comfort, and my mind appeared to me in such colours, 
 that to administer it to me was only to exasperate me, and 
 to mock my fears. 
 
 At length, I remembered my friend Martin Madan, and 
 sent for him. T used to think him an enthusiast, but now 
 seemed convinced that, if there was any balm in Gilead, he 
 must administer it to me. On former occasions, when my 
 spiritual concerns had at any time occurred to me, I thought 
 likewise on the necessity of repentance. I knew that many 
 persons had spoken of shedding tears for sin ; but, when I 
 asked myself whether the time would ever come when I 
 should weep for mine, it seemed to me that a stone might 
 sooner do it. 
 
 Not knowing that Christ was exalted to give repentance, 
 I despaired of ever attaining to it. My friend came to me ; 
 we sat on the bedside together, and he began to declare to 
 me the Gospel. He spoke of original sin, and the corrup- 
 tion of every man born into the world, wjiereby every one 
 is a child of wrath. I perceived something like hope dawn- 
 ing in my heart. This doctrine set me more on a level 
 with the rest of mankind, and made my condition appear 
 less desperate. 
 
 Next he insisted on the all-atoning efficacy of the blood 
 of Jesus, and his righteousness, for our justification. While 
 I heard this part of his discourse, and the scriptures on 
 which he founded it, my heart began to burn within me ; 
 my soul was pierced with a sense of my bitter ingratitude 
 to so merciful a Savioui' ; and those tears, which I thought
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 4. 201 
 
 impossible, burst forth freely. I saw clearly that my case 
 lequired such a remedy, and had not the least doubt within 
 me but that this was the gospel of salvation. 
 
 Lastly, he urged the necessity of a lively faith in Jesus 
 Christ ; not an assent only of the understanding, but a 
 faith of application, an actually laying hold of it, and em- 
 bracing it as a salvation wrought out for me personally. 
 Here I failed, and deplored my want of such a faith. He 
 told me it was the gift of God, which he trusted he would 
 bestow u])on me. I could only reply, "I wish he would :" 
 a very irreverent petition ; but a very sincere one, and 
 such as the blessed God, in his due time, was pleased to 
 answer. 
 
 My brother, finding that I had received consolation from 
 Mr. IMadan, was very anxious that I should take the earliest 
 opportimity of conversing with him again ; and, for this 
 purpose, pressed me to go to him immediately. I was 
 for putting it oflf, but my brother seemed impatient of 
 delay ; and, at length, ^''I'evailed on me to set out. I 
 mention this to the honour of his candour and humanity; 
 which would suffer no difference of sentiments to interfere 
 with them. My welfare was his only object, and all pre- 
 judices fled before his zeal to procure it. May he receive, 
 for his recompense, all that happiness the gospel, which I 
 then first became acquainted with, is alone able to impart ! 
 
 Easier, indeed, I was, but far from easy. The wounded 
 spirit within me was less in pain, l:)ut by no means healed. 
 What I had experienced was but the l)eginning of sorrows, 
 and a long train of still greater terrors was at hand. I 
 slept my three hours well, and then awoke with ten times 
 a stronger alienation from God than ever. 
 
 At eleven o'clock, my brotlicr called upon me, and in 
 about an hour after his arrival that distemper of mind, 
 whicli I had so ardently wished for, actually seized me. 
 
 AVhile I traversed the apartment, ex])ecting every mo- 
 ment that the earth would open her mouth and swallow me, 
 my conscience scaring me, and the city of refuge out of reach 
 and out of sight, a strange and horrible darkness fell upon 
 me. If it were possible that a heavy blow could light on the 
 brain without touching the skull, such was the sensation
 
 262 ^ APPENDIX. 
 
 I felt. I clapped my hand to my forehead, and cried aloud, 
 through the pain it gave me. At every stroke my thoughts 
 and expressions became more wild and incoherent ; all that 
 remained clear was the sense of sin, and the expectation of 
 punishment. These kept undisturbed possession all through 
 my illness, without interruption or abatement. 
 
 My brother instantly observed the change, and con- 
 sulted with my friends on the best manner to dispose of 
 me. It was agreed among them, that I should be carried 
 to St. Alban's, where Dr. Cotton kept a house for the re- 
 ception of such patients, and with whom T was known to 
 have a slight acquaintance. Not only his skill as a physi- 
 cian recommended him to their choice, but his well-known 
 humanity and sweetness of temper. It will be proper to 
 draw a veil over the secrets of my prison-house : let it suf- 
 fice to say, that the low state of body and mind to which 
 I was reduced was perfectly well calculated to humble the 
 natural vain-glory and pride of my heart. 
 
 These are the efficacious means which Infinite "Wisdom 
 thougkt meet to make use of for that purpose. A sense 
 of self-loathing and abhorrence ran through all my in- 
 sanity. Conviction of sin, and expectation of instant judg- 
 ment, never left me, from the 7th of December, 1763, 
 until the middle of July following. The accuser of the 
 brethren was ever busy with me night and day, bringing to 
 my recollection in dreams the commission of long-forgotten 
 sins, and charging upon my conscience things of an in- 
 different nature as atrocious crimes. 
 
 All that passed in this long interval of eight months 
 may be classed under two heads, conviction of sin, and 
 despair of mercy. But, blessed be the God of my salvation 
 for every sigh I drew, for every tear I shed ; since thus it 
 pleased him to judge me here, that I might not be judged 
 hereafter. 
 
 After five months of continual expectation that the 
 Divine vengeance would overtake me, I became so familiar 
 with despair as to have contracted a sort of hardiness and 
 indifFcreucc as to the event. I began to persuade myself 
 that, while tlie execution of the sentence was suspended, it 
 would be for my interest to indulge a less horrible train of
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 263 
 
 ideas than I had been accustomed to muse upon. By this 
 means I entered into conversation with the Doctor, laughed 
 at his stories, and told him some of my own to match 
 them ; still, howcvci', carrying a sentence of irrevocable 
 doom in my heart. 
 
 He observed the seeming alteration with pleasure. Be- 
 lieving, as well he might, that my smiles were sincere, he 
 thought my recovery well-nigh completed ; but they were 
 in reality like the green surface of a muorass, pleasant to 
 the eye, but a cover for nothing but rottenness and filth. 
 The only thing that could promote and effectuate my cure 
 was yet wanting ; an experimental knowledge of the redemp- 
 tion which is in CJirist Jesus. 
 
 I remember, about this time, a diabolical species of 
 regret that found harbour in my wretched heart. I was 
 sincerely sorry that I had not seized every opportunity of 
 giving scope to my wicked appetites ; and even envied 
 those who, being departed to their own place before me, 
 had the consolation to rctiect that they had well earned 
 their miserable inheritance, by indulging their sensuality 
 without restraint. Oh, merciful God ! what a Tophet of 
 pollution is the human soul ! and wherein do we differ 
 from the devils, unless thy grace prevent us ] 
 
 In about three months more (July 25, 1764) my brother 
 came from Cambridge to visit me. Dr. C. having told him 
 that he thought me greatly amended, he was rather dis- 
 appointed at finding me almost as silent and reserved as 
 ever ; for the first sight of him struck me with many 
 painful sensations, both of sorrow for ray own remediless 
 condition and envy of his happiness. 
 
 As soon as we were left alone, he asked me how I found 
 myself ; I answered, " As much better as despair can make 
 me." We went together into the garden. Here, on ex- 
 pressing a settled assurance of sudden judgment, he pro- 
 tested to me tliat it was all a delusion ; and protested 
 so strongly, that I coukl not help gi\'ing some attention 
 to him. I burst into tears, and cried out, " If it be a 
 delusion, then am I the happiest of beings." Something 
 like a ray of hope was shot into my heart ; but still I was 
 afraid to indulge it. We dined together, and I spent the
 
 264 APPENDIX. 
 
 afternoon in a more cheerful manner. Something seemed 
 to whisper to mc every moment, " Still there is mercy." 
 
 Even after he left me, this change of sentiment ga- 
 thered ground continually ; yet my mind was in such a 
 fluctuating state, that I can only call it a vage presage of 
 better things at hand, without being able to assign a reason 
 for it. The servant observed a sudden alteration in me for 
 the better : and the man, whom I have ever since retained 
 in my service, expressed great joy on the occasion. 
 
 I went to bed and slept well. In the morning, I 
 dreamed that the sweetest boy I ever saw came dancing up 
 to my bedside ; he seemed just out of leading-strings, yet 
 I took particular notice of the firmness and steadiness of 
 his tread. The sight aifected me with pleasure, and served 
 at least to harmonise my sjiirits ; so that I awoke for the 
 first time with a sensation of delight on my mind. Still, 
 however, I knew not where to look for the establishment of 
 the comfort I felt ; my joy was as much a mystery to 
 myself as to those about me. The blessed God was pre- 
 paring for me the clearer light of his countenance, by this 
 first dawning of that light upon me. 
 
 Within a few days of my first arrival at St. Alban's, I 
 had thrown aside the word of God, as a book in which I 
 had no longer any interest or portion. The only instance 
 in which I can recollect reading a single chapter, was about 
 two months before my recovery. Having found a Bible on 
 the bench in the garden, I opened upon the 1 1th of St. John, 
 where Lazarus is raised from the dead ; and saw so much 
 benevolence, mercy, goodness, and sympathy, with mise- 
 rable man, in our Saviour's conduct, that I almost shed 
 tears even after the relation ; little thinking that it was 
 an exact type of the mercy which Jesus was on the point 
 of extending towards myself. I sighed, and said, " Oh, 
 that I had not rejected so good a Redeemer, that. I had not 
 forfeited all his favours ! " Thus was my heart softened, 
 though not yet enlightened. I closed the book, without 
 intending to open it again. 
 
 Having risen with somewhat of a more cheerful feeling, 
 I repaired to my room, where breakfast waited for me. 
 "While I sat at table, I found the cloud of horror which
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 265 
 
 had SO long hung over me was every moment passing 
 away ; and every moment came fraught with hope. I was 
 continually more and more persuaded that I was not utterly 
 doomed to destruction. The way of salvation was still, 
 however, hid from my eyes ; nor did I see it at all clearer 
 than before my illness. I only thought that, if it would 
 please God to spare me, I would lead a better life ; and 
 that I would yet escape hell, if a religious observance of my 
 duty would secure me from it. 
 
 Thus may the terror of the Lord make a pharisee; hut 
 only the sweet voice of Tnercy in the Oospel can make a 
 Christian. 
 
 But the happy period which was to shake oiT my fetters, 
 and afford me a clear opening of the free mercy of God 
 in Christ Jesus, was now arrived. I flung myself into a 
 chair near the window, and, seeing a Bible there, ventured 
 once more to apply to it for comfort and instruction. The 
 first verse I saw was the 2.5th of the 3d of Romans ; 
 " Whom God hath set forth to be a pi-opitiation through 
 faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remis- 
 sion of sins that are past, through the forbearance of God." 
 
 Immediately I received strength to believe it, and the 
 full beams of the Sun of Righteousness shone uj^on mo. I 
 saw the sufficiency of the atonement he had made, my 
 pardon sealed in his blood, and all the fulness and com- 
 pleteness of his justification. In a moment I believed, and 
 received the Gospel. Whatever my friend Madan had said 
 to me, long before, revived in all its clearness, with demon- 
 stration of the Spirit and with power. Unless the almighty 
 arm had been under me, I think I should have died with 
 gratitude and joy. My eyes filled with tears, and my voice 
 choked with transport, I could only look up to heaven in 
 silent fear, overwhelmed with love and wonder. But the 
 work of the Holy Ghost is best described in his own words, 
 it is "joy \inspeakable, and full of glory." Thus was my 
 heavenly Father in Christ Jesus pleased to give me the full 
 assurance of faith, and out of a strong, stony, unbelieving 
 heart, to raise up a child unto Abraham. How glad should 
 I now have been to have spent every moment in prayer and 
 thanksgiving !
 
 266 APPENDIX. 
 
 I lost no opportunity of repairing to a throne of grace ; 
 but flew to it with an earnestness irresistible and never to 
 be satisfied. Could I help it ? Could I do othcr^vdse than 
 love and rejoice in my reconciled Father in Christ Jesus ? 
 The Lord had enlarged my heart, and I ran in the way of 
 his commandments. For many succeeding weeks, tears 
 were ready to flow if I did but speak of the Gospel, or 
 mention the name of Jesus. To rejoice day and night was 
 all my employment. Too happy to sleep much, I thought 
 it was but lost time that was spent in slumber. O that 
 the ardour of my first love had continued ! But I have 
 known many a lifeless and unhallowed hour since ; long 
 intervals of darkness, interrupted by shoi't returns of peace 
 and joy in believing. 
 
 My physician, ever watchful and apprehensive for my 
 welfare, was now alarmed, lest the sudden transition from 
 despair to joy should terminate in a fatal frenzy. But " the 
 Lord was my strength and my song, and was become my 
 salvation." I said, " I shall not die, but live, and declare 
 the works of the Lord ; he has chastened me sore, but not 
 given me over unto death. give thanks unto the Lord, 
 for his mercy endureth for ever." 
 
 In a short time Dr. C. became satisfied, and acquiesced 
 in the soundness of my cure ; and much sweet communion 
 I had with him concerning the things of our salvation. 
 He visited me every morning while I staid with him, which 
 was near twelve months after my recovery, and the Gospel 
 was the delightful theme of our conversation. 
 
 No trial has befallen me since, but what might be ex- 
 pected in a state of warfare. Satan, indeed, has changed 
 his battery. Before my conversion, sensual gratification 
 was the weapon with which he sought to destroy' me. 
 Being naturally of an easy, quiet disposition, I was seldom 
 tempted to anger ; yet that passion it is which now gives 
 me the most disturbance, and occasions the sharpest con- 
 flicts. But, Jesus being my strength, I fight against it ; 
 and if I am not conqueror, yet I am not overcome. 
 
 I now employed my brother to seek out an abode for 
 me in the neighbourhood of Cambridge, being determined, 
 by the Lord's leave, to see Loudon, the scene of my former
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 2G7 
 
 abomiuations, no more. I had still one place of preferment 
 left, which seemed to bind me under the necessity of 
 returning thither again. But I resolved to break the bond, 
 chiefly because my peace of conscience was in question. I 
 held, for some years, the office of Commissioner of Bank- 
 rupts, worth about Wl. per annum. Conscious of my igno- 
 rance of the law, I could not take the accustomed oath, and 
 resigned it ; thereby releasing myself from an occasion of 
 great sin, and every obligation to return to London. By 
 this means, I reduced myself to an income scarcely sufficient 
 for my maintenance ; but I would rather have starved in 
 reality than deliberately offend against my Saviour ; and 
 his great mercy has since raised me up such friends, as 
 have enabled me to enjoy all the comforts and conveniences 
 of life. I am well assured that, while I live, " bread shall 
 be given me, and water shall be sure," according to his 
 gracious promise. 
 
 After my brother had made many unsuccessful attempts 
 to procure me a dwelling near him, I one day poured out 
 my soul in prayer to God, beseeching him that, wherever 
 he should be pleased, in his fatherly mercy, to lead me, it 
 might be in the society of those who feared his name, and 
 loved the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity ; a prayer of 
 which I have good reason to acknowledge his gracious 
 acceptance. 
 
 In the beginning of June, 1765, I received a letter from 
 my brother, to say he had taken lodgings for me at Hunting- 
 don, which he believed would suit me. Though it was 
 sixteen miles from Cambridge, I was resolved to take them ; 
 for I had been two mouths in perfect health, and my cir- 
 cunxstances required a less expensive way of life. It was 
 with great reluctance, however, that I thought of leaving 
 the place of my second nativity ; I had so much leisure 
 there to study the blessed word of God, and had enjoyed 
 so much happiness : but God ordered everything for me 
 like an indulgent Father, and had prepared a more com- 
 fortable place of residence than I could have chosen for 
 myself. 
 
 On the 7th of June, 17G5, having spent more than 
 eighteen months at St. Albau's, partly in bondage, and
 
 268 APPENDIX. 
 
 partly in the liberty wherewith Christ had made me free, I 
 took my leave of the place at four iu the morning, and set 
 out for Cambridge. 
 
 The servant, whom I lately mentioned as rejoicing in 
 my recovery, attended me. He had maintained such an 
 affectionate watchfulness over me during my whole illness, 
 and waited on me with so much patience and gentleness, 
 that I could not bear to leave him behind, though it was 
 with some difficulty the Doctor was prevailed on to part 
 with him. The strongest argument of all was the earnest 
 desire he expressed to follow me. He seemed to have been 
 providentially thrown in my way, having entered Dr. C.'s 
 service just time enough to attend me ; and I have strong 
 ground to hope, that God will use me as an instrument to 
 bring him to a knowledge of Jesus. It is impossible to say 
 with how delightful a sense of his protection and fatherly 
 care of me it has pleased the Almighty to favour me, during 
 the whole journey. 
 
 I remembered the pollution which is in the world, and 
 the sad share I had in it myself ; and my heart ached at 
 the thought of entering it again. The blessed God had 
 endued me with some concern for his glory, and I was 
 fearful of hearing it traduced by oaths and blasphemies, 
 the common language of this highly favoured but ungrate- 
 ful country. But, " fear not, I am with thee," was my 
 comfort. I passed the whole journey in silent communion 
 with God ; and those hours are amongst the happiest I 
 have known. 
 
 I repaired to Huntingdon the Saturday after my arrival 
 at Cambridge. ]\Iy brother, who had attended me thither, 
 had no sooner left me than, finding myself surrounded 
 by strangers and in a sti'ange place, my siMi-it.s began to 
 sink, and I felt (such were the backslidings of my heart) 
 like a traveller in the midst of an inhospitable desert, with- 
 out a friend to comfort or a guide to direct me. I walked 
 forth, towards the close of the day, in this melancholy 
 frame of mind, and, having wandered about a mile from 
 the town, I found my heart, at length, so powerfully drawn 
 towards the Lord, that, having gained a retii'cd and secret 
 nook in the corner of a field, I kneeled down under a bank,
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE. 269 
 
 and poured forth my complaints before him. It pleased 
 my Saviour to hear me, in that this oppression was taken 
 off, and I was enaljled to trust in him tliat carcth for the 
 stranger, to roll my burden upon him, and to rest assured 
 that, wheresoever he might cast my lot, the God of all 
 consolation would still be with me. But this was not all. 
 He did for me more than either I had asked or thought. 
 
 The next day I went to church, for the first time after 
 my recovery. Throughout the whole service I had nnich 
 to do to restrain my emotions, so fully did I see the beauty 
 and the glory of the Lord. My heart was full of love to all 
 the congregation, especially to them in whom I observed 
 an air of sober attention. A grave and sober person sat in 
 the pew with me ; him I have since seen and often con- 
 versed with, and have found him a pious man, and a true 
 servant of the blessed lledeemer. While he was singing 
 the psalm, I looked at him, and, observing him intent on 
 his holy employment, I could not help saying in my heart, 
 with much emotion, " Bless you, for praising him whom 
 my soul loveth ! " 
 
 Such was the goodness of the Lord to mc, that he gave 
 me the " oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise 
 for the spirit of heaviness ;" and though my voice was 
 silent, being stopt by the intenseness of what I felt, yet 
 my soul sung within me, and even leapt for joy. And 
 when the Gospel for the day was read, the sound of it was 
 more than I could well support. Oh, what a word is the 
 word of God, when the Spirit quickens us to receive it, and 
 gives the hearing ear, and the understanding heart ! The 
 harmony of heaven is in it, and discovers its Author. The 
 parable of the prodigal son was the portion. I saw myself 
 in that glass so clearly, and the loving-kindness of my 
 slighted and forgotten Lord, that the whole scene was 
 realized to me, and acted over in my heart. 
 
 I went immediately after church to the place where I 
 had prayed the day before, and found the relief I had there 
 received was but the earnest of a richer blessing. How 
 shall I express what the Lord did for me, except by saying, 
 that he made all his goodness to pass bcfoi-e me ! I seemed 
 to speak to him face to face, as a man conversing with his
 
 270 APPENDIX. 
 
 friend, except that my spcecli was only in tears of joy, and 
 groanings which cannot be uttered. I could say, indeed, 
 with Jacob, not " how dreadful," but how lovely, " is this 
 place ! This is none other than the house of God." 
 
 Four months I continued in my lodging. Some few 
 of the neighbours came to see me, but their visits were not 
 very frequent ; and, in general, I had but little intercourse, 
 except with my God in Christ Jesus. It was he who made 
 my solitude sweet, and the wilderness to bloom and blossom 
 as the rose ; and my meditation of him was so delightful 
 that, if I had few other comforts, neither did I want any. 
 
 One day, however, towards the expiration of this period, 
 I found myself in a state of desertion. That commimion 
 which I had so long been able to maintain with the Lord 
 was suddenly interrupted. I began to dislike my solitary 
 situation, and to fear I should never be able to weather 
 out the winter in so lonely a dwelling. Suddenly a thought 
 struck me, which I shall not fear to call a suggestion of 
 the good providence which had brought me to Huntingdon. 
 A few months before, I had formed an acquaintance vrith 
 the Rev. Mr. Unwin's family. His son, though he had 
 heard that I rather declined society than sought it, and 
 though I\Irs. Unwin herself dissuaded him from visiting 
 me on that account, was yet so strongly inclined to it, that, 
 notwithstanding all objections and arguments to the con- 
 trary, he one day engaged himself, as we were coming out 
 of church after morning prayers, to di-ink tea -nath me 
 that afternoon. To my inexpressible joy, I found him one 
 whose notions of religion were spiritual and Hvely ; one 
 whom the Lord had been training up from his infancy for 
 the service of the temple. We opened our hearts to each 
 other at the first interview ; and when we parted I imme- 
 diately retired to my chamber, and prayed the Lord, who 
 had been the author, to be the guardian of our friendship, 
 and to grant to it fervency and perpetuity, even unto 
 death : and I doubt not that my gracious Father heard this 
 prayer also. 
 
 The Sunday following I dined with him. That after- 
 noon, while the rest of the family was withdrawn, I had 
 much discourse with Mrs. Unwin. I am not at liberty to
 
 PERSONzUi NARRATIVE. 271 
 
 describe the pleasure I had in conversing with her, because 
 she will be one of the first who will have the perusal of 
 this narrative. Let it suffice to say, I found we had one 
 faith, and had been baptized with the same baptism. 
 
 When I returned home, I gave thanks to God, who had 
 so graciously answered my prayer;*, by bi'inging me into 
 the society of Christians. She has since been a means in 
 the hand of God of supporting, quickening, and strength- 
 ening me, in my walk with him. It was long before I 
 thought of any other connexion with this family than as a 
 friend and neighbour. On the day, however, above men- 
 tioned, while I was revolving in my mind the nature of my 
 situation, and beginning, for the first time, to find an irk- 
 someness in such retirement, suddenly it occurred to me, 
 that I might probably find a place in Mr. Uuwiu's family 
 as a boarder. A young gentleman, who had hved with 
 him as a pupil, was the day before gone to Cambridge. 
 It a^jpeared to me, at least, possible, that I might be allowed 
 to succeed him. From the moment this thought struck 
 me, such a tumult of anxious solicitude seized me, that for 
 two or three days I could not divert my mind to any other 
 subject. I blamed and condemned myself for want of 
 submission to the Lord's will ; but still the language of my 
 mutinous and disobedient heart was, " Give me the bless- 
 ing, or else I die." 
 
 About the third evening after I had determined upon 
 this measure, I at length made shift to fasten my thoughts 
 upon a theme which had no manner of connexion with it. 
 While I was pursuing my meditations, Mr. Unwin and 
 family quite out of sight, my attention was suddenly called 
 home again by the words which had been continually play- 
 ing in my mind, and ,vere, at length, repeated with such 
 importunity that I could not help regarding them : — 
 " The Lord God of truth will do this." I was efFectually 
 convinced, that they were not of my own production, and 
 accordingly I received from them some assurance of suc- 
 cess ; but my unbelief and fearfulncss robbed me of much 
 of the coiufort they were intended to convey ; though I 
 have since had many a blessed exi:)erience of the same kind, 
 for which I can never be sufficiently thankful. I imme-
 
 272 APPENDIX. 
 
 diately began to negociate the affair, and in a few days it 
 Avas entirely concluded. 
 
 I took possession of my new abode, Nov. 11, 1765. I 
 have found it a place of rest prepared for me by God's own 
 hand, where he has blessed me with a thousand mercies, 
 and instances of his fatherly protection ; and where he has 
 given me abundant means of furtherance in the knowledge 
 of our Lord Jesus, both l)y the study of his own word and 
 communion with his dear disciples. ]\Iay nothing but 
 death interrupt our union ! 
 
 Peace be with the reader, through faith in our Lord 
 Jesus Christ. Amen ! 
 
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 Printed by G. Barclay, Castlo St. Leicester Sq.
 
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