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 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY
 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
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 SOUTHERN SrtANCh 
 
 UNIVERSITY of CALIFORNIA 
 LIBRARY ' 
 
 LOS ANGELES. CAUR
 
 WlULIAM COWPER. 
 
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 THE 
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 
 
 WITH 
 
 REMARKS 
 
 ON 
 
 EPISTOLARY WRITERS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 ' Observatur oculis ille vir, quo neminem xtas nostra graviorem, sanc- 
 tiorem, subtiliorem denique tulit: quem ego, quum ex admiratione diligere 
 cccpissem, quod evenire contra solet, magis admiraius sum, postquam pe- 
 nitus inspexi. Inspexi enitn penitus: nihil a me ille secretum, non joculare, 
 non serium, non triste, non lseturo." 
 
 Plinii Epist. Lib. IV. Ep. 17. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON AND CO. 
 
 st. paul's churchyard, 
 y t. bensley, bolt court, rleet street. 
 
 1812.
 
 A4-H3 
 
 v.\ 
 CONTENTS 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 se. 
 
 An introductory Letter to the Right Hon. Earl Cowper. . . 1 
 Desultory Remarks on the Letters of eminent persons, par- 
 ticularly those of Pope and Cowper 13 
 
 LIFE OF COWPER, PART THE FIRST. 
 
 The family, birth, and first residence of Cowper 65 
 
 His verses on the portrait of his mother 68 
 
 Her epitaph by her niece 71 
 
 The schools that Cowper attended 73 
 
 His sufferings during childhood 74 
 
 His removal from Westminster to an attorney's office .... 78 
 
 Verses on his early afflictions 79 
 
 His settlement in the Inner-Temple 80 
 
 His acquaintance with eminent authors 80 
 
 His epistle to Robert Lloyd, Esq 82 
 
 His translations in Duncomb's Horace 60 
 
 His own account of his early life 86 
 
 Stanzas on reading Sir Charles Grandison 87 
 
 His verses on finding the heel of a shoe. 89 
 
 His nomination to the office of Reading Clerk and Clerk 
 
 of the Private Committees in the House of Lords. . 9 1 
 
 His appointment to be Clerk of the Journals in that House Q2 
 Letter 1. To Lady Hesketh. Journals of the House of 
 Lords j reflection on the singular temper of his 
 
 mind Aug. 3, 1/63. . 92 
 
 His extreme dread of appearing in public 9'* 
 
 His derangement, and removal to St. Alban's 9 5 
 
 vol. I. b
 
 ii CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 His recovery 9^ 
 
 His settlement at Huntingdon to be near his brother 98 
 
 The translation of Voltaire's Henriade by the two brothers 08 
 The origin of Cowper's acquaintance with the Unwins ... 101 
 
 His adoption into the family 102 
 
 His early friendship with Lord Thurlow, and J. Hill, Esq. 103 
 
 Letter. 1/65. 
 
 2 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Account of his situation at Hunt- 
 
 ingdon June 24. . 105 
 
 3 To Lady Hesketh. On his illness and subsequent re- 
 
 covery July 1 . . 1 07 
 
 4 To the same. Salutary effects on the human mind. 
 
 July 4. . 109 
 
 5 To the same. Account of Huntingdon : distance from 
 
 his brother, &c July 5. . 112 
 
 6 To the same, Newton's treatise on prophecy : reflec- 
 
 tions on Dr. Young, on the truth of Christianity. 
 
 July 12. . 115 
 
 7 To the same. On the beauty and sublimity of scrip- 
 
 tural language Aug. I . . 118 
 
 8 To the same. Pearsall's meditations; definition of faith. 
 
 Aug. 17. . 122 
 
 9 To the same. On a particular providence; expe- 
 
 rience of mercy, &c Sept. 4. . 124 
 
 TO To the same. First introduction to the Unwin fa- 
 mily; their characters Sept. 14. . 12S 
 
 11 To the same. On the thankfulness of the heart, it's 
 
 inequalities, &c Oct. 10. . 13 1 
 
 12 To the same. Miss Unwin, her character and piety. 
 
 Oct. 18. . 133 
 
 13 To Major Cowper. Situation at Huntingdon; his 
 
 perfect satisfaction, &c Oct. 18. . 137 
 
 14 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On those who confins all me- 
 
 rits to their own acquaintance Oct. 25. . 13Q
 
 CONTENTS. iii 
 
 Letter. p ag ,. 
 
 1766- 
 
 15 To Lady Hesketh. On solitude; on the desertion of 
 
 his friends March 6. . 141 
 
 ,16 To Mrs. Cowper. Mrs. Unwin, and her son ; his 
 
 cousin Martin 144 
 
 1" To the same. Letters the fruit of friendship; his con- 
 version April 4. . 146 
 
 18 To the same. The probability of knowing each other 
 
 in Heaven April 17. . 148 
 
 19 To the same. On the recollection of earthly affairs by 
 
 departed spirits April 18. 152 
 
 20 To the same. On the same subject; on his own state 
 
 of body and mind Sept. 3. . 157 
 
 21 To the same. His manner of living; reasons for his 
 
 not taking orders Oct. 20. . 160 
 
 176/. 
 
 22 To the same. Reflections arising from rending Marshall. 
 
 March 11.. 103 
 
 23 To the same. Introduction of Mr. Unwin's son ; his 
 
 gardening ; on Marshall March 14. . 1 66 
 
 24 To the same. On the motive of his introducing Mr. 
 
 Unwin's son to her April 3. . 168 
 
 25 To the same. Mr. Unwin's death; doubts concerning 
 
 his future abode July 13. . 170 
 
 16 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Reflections arising from Mr. 
 
 Unwin's death July 1(5. . 172 
 
 The origin of Cowper's acquaintance with Mr. Newton. . . 173 
 The death of Mr. Unwin, and Cowper's removal with 
 
 Mrs. Unwin to Olney 17 4 
 
 His devotion and charity in his new residence 174 
 
 27 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On the occurrences during his 
 
 visit at St. Alban's June 16, 1768. . 175 
 
 1769. 
 
 28 To the same. On the difference of dispositions; his 
 
 love of retirement *7" 
 
 b 2
 
 iv CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. Page- 
 
 His poem in memory of John Thornton, Esq 1 77 
 
 His beneficence to a necessitous child . .... 179 
 
 The composition of his hymns 180 
 
 29 To Mrs. Cowper. His new situation j reasons for mix- 
 
 ture of evil in the world 18L 
 
 30 To the same. The consolations of religion on the death 
 
 of her husband Aug. 3 1 . . 1 84 
 
 Cowper's journey to Cambridge on his brother's illness. ... 186 
 
 1770. 
 
 31 To the same. Dangerous illness of his brother, Mar. 5. . 187 
 
 32 To the Rev. J. Newton. Sickness and death of his 
 
 brother Mar. 31. . IS9 
 
 Short account and character of Cowper's brother 193 
 
 33 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Religious sentiments of his bro- 
 
 ther May 8. . 1Q5 
 
 34 To Mrs. Cowper. The same subject. ... . . June 7- -197 
 
 35 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Expression of his gratitude for 
 
 instances of friendship Sept. 25. . 201 
 
 The composition of the Olney hymns by Mr. Newton, 
 
 and Cowper 202 
 
 The interruption of the Olney hymns by the illness of 
 
 Cowper : 202 
 
 His long and severe depression 205 
 
 His tame hares, one of his first amusements on his re- 
 covery 206 
 
 The origin of his friendship with Mr. Bull. 20/ 
 
 His translation from Madame de la Mothe Guion 20/ 
 
 36 To the Rev. W. Unwin. The same subject ; of sup- 
 
 plicatory Letters, &c ... June 18. . 209 
 
 1779- 
 
 37 To the same. Johnson's Lives of the Poets. . May 26. .211 
 
 38 To the same. His hot-house ; tame pigeons; visit to 
 
 Gayhurst Sept. 21. . 212 
 
 39 To the same. Johnson's Biography; his treatment of 
 
 Milton Oct. 31.. 215
 
 CONTENTS. v 
 
 Letter. Page> 
 
 40 To the Rev. W. Umvin. Quick succession of human 
 
 events; modern patriotism Dec. 2. . 21/ 
 
 J 780. 
 
 41 To the same. Burke's speech on the reformation ; 
 
 Nightingale and Glow-worm Feb. 27. . 219 
 
 42 To the Rev. J. Newton. On the danger of innovation. 
 
 March 18. .222 
 
 43 To the Rev. W. Unwin. On keeping the Sabbath. 
 
 Mar. 2S. . 224 
 
 44 To the same. Pluralities in the church April 6. . 226 
 
 45 To die Rev. J. Newton. Distinction between a tra- 
 
 velled man, and a travelled gentleman. . . April 16. 22Q 
 
 46 To the same, Serious reflections on rural scenery. 
 
 May 3. .230 
 
 47 To J. Hill, Esq. The Chancellor's (T w) illness. 
 
 May 6. . 233 
 
 48 To the Rev. W. Unwin. His passion for landscape 
 
 drawing ; modern politics May 8. . 235 
 
 49 To Mrs. Cowper. On her brother's death. . May 10. . 239 
 
 50 To the Rev. J. Newton. Pedantry of Commentators ; 
 
 Dr. Bentley, &c May 10. . 240 
 
 51 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Danger of endeavouring to 
 
 excel ; versification of -a thought June 8. . 242 
 
 52 To the Rev. J. Newton. On the riots in 1780; danger 
 
 of associations June 12. . 240 
 
 53 To the Rev. William Unwin. Latin verses on ditto. 
 
 June 18. .248 
 
 54 To the same. Robertson's History ; Biographia Bri- 
 
 tannica June 22. . 25 1 
 
 55 To the Rev. J. Newton. Ingenuity of slander ; lace- 
 
 makers' petition June 23 . . 253 
 
 56 To the Rev. W. Unwin. To touch and retouch the 
 
 secret of good writing ; an epitaph July 2. .257 
 
 57 To J. Hill, Esq. Recommendation of the lace-makers' 
 
 petition July 8. . 259
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 58 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Translation of the Latin 
 
 verses on the riots in 1/80.. July 11.. 201 
 
 5Q To Mrs. Cowper. On the insensible progress of age. 
 
 July 20. . 264 
 
 60 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Olney bridge July 27- . 266 
 
 61 To the Rev. J. Newton. A riddle July 30. . 269 
 
 62 To the Reverend W. Unwin. Human nature not 
 
 changed} a modern, only an ancient in a different 
 dress Aug. 6. . 270 
 
 63 To the Rev. J. Newton. Escape of one of his hares. 
 
 Aug. 21.. 2/3 
 
 64 To Mrs. Cowper. Lady Cowper's death 5 age a friend 
 
 to the mind Aug. 31. . 276 
 
 65 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Biographia ; verses, parson 
 
 and clerk Sept. 3. 27s 
 
 6d To the same. On Education Sept. 7- -281 
 
 67 To the same. Public schools Sept. 17. . 284 
 
 68 To the same. On the same subject Oct. 5. . 287 
 
 6g To Mrs. Newton. On Mr. Newton's arrival at Rams- 
 gate Oct. 5. . 2f)l 
 
 70 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Verses on a goldfinch starved 
 
 to death in his cage Nov. Q. . 293 
 
 71 To J. Hill, Esq. With the memorable law-case be- 
 
 tween nose and eyes Dec. 25. . 2<)4 
 
 72 To the Rev. W. Unwin. With the same. . Dec. . . 2y8 
 
 1781. 
 
 73 To J. Hill, Esq. On metrical law-cases ; old age. 
 
 Feb. 15. .300 
 
 74 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Consolations on the asperity 
 
 of a critic April 2. . 302 
 
 75 To the same. Publication of his first volume. . May 1 . . 306 
 
 76 To J. Hill, Esq. On the composition and publication 
 
 of his first volume May Q. . 308 
 
 77 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Reasons for not showing his 
 
 preface to Mr. Unwin May 10. . 3 10
 
 CONTENTS. vii 
 
 Letter. Pag. 
 
 78 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Delay of his publication ; 
 
 Vincent Bourne, and his poems May 23. .312 
 
 7Q To the same. Correction of his proofs ; on his horse- 
 manship May ..318 
 
 80 To the same. Mrs. Unwin* s criticisms 5 a distinguish- 
 
 ing providence June 5. . 320 
 
 8 1 To the same. On the design of his poems ; Mr. Un- 
 
 win's bashfulness June 24. . 323 
 
 82 To the same. Thnnks.for some rugs; on the fashion 
 
 of wearing wigs July 6. . 328 
 
 83 To the Rev. J. Newton. In rhyme, on his poetry. 
 
 July 12. .330 
 
 84 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Brighton amusements; his 
 
 projected authorship Oct. 6. . 332 
 
 85 To Mrs. Cowper. His first volume; death of a friend. 
 
 Oct. 19. .335 
 
 86 To the Rev.W. Unwin. Brighton dissipation; educa- 
 
 tion of young Unwin Nov. 5. . 339 
 
 *>7 To the same. Origin and causes of social feeling. 
 
 Nov. 26. . 342 
 1/82. 
 83 To the same. Johnson's character of Prior and Pope. 
 
 Jan. 5. . 346 
 
 89 To the same. Danger of criticism to the taste; young 
 
 Unwin's education Jan. 17. . 350 
 
 90 To the Rev. J. Newton. His intended publication. 
 
 Feb. 2. . 355 
 
 91 To the same. Pleasures of authorship Feb. 16. .359 
 
 Character of Caraccioli 36 1 
 
 92 To the Rev.W. Unwin. Mr. Newton's preface; the 
 
 dignity of authorship Feb. 24. . 36i 
 
 93 To Lord Thurlow. With his first volume of poems. 
 
 Feb. 25.. 367 
 
 94 To the Rev. J. Newton. Thoughts on reproving kings. 
 
 Feb. . . 36o
 
 vhi CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. T.ige 
 
 95 To the Rev. J. Newton. Past and present politics. 
 
 March 6. . 372 
 
 96 To the Rev.W. Unwin. On the news-papers. Mar. 7- 375 
 Q7 To the Rev. J. Newton. Mr. Newton's preface, and 
 
 Johnson's criticisms Mar. 14. . 377 
 
 The inadequate success of his first volume 379 
 
 Probable reasons of the neglect it at first experienced 380 
 
 Example of Cowper's ingenuousness in speaking of him- 
 self. 381 
 
 The various kinds of excellence in his first volume ... 362
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 VOL. IL 
 
 LIFE OF COWPER, PART THE SECOND. 
 
 Letter. Pag. 
 
 The origin of Cowper's acquaintance with Lady Austen. ... 1 
 
 His poetical epistle to that lady 3 
 
 1781. 
 
 98 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Duty of submitting to in- 
 
 jury ; the story of an Abbe July 2Q. . 8 
 
 99 To the same. His poem, Retirement ; Lady Austen's 
 
 settling at Olney August 25. . 12 
 
 3 782. 
 
 100 To the same. On some verses of Lowth's ; on the 
 
 origin of his correspondence with Lady Austen. . . 
 
 February g. . 15 
 A billet and verses from Cowper to Lady Austen 18 
 
 101 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Observations on religious 
 
 characters 21 
 
 102 To the same. On his own volume of poems; on his 
 
 letter to the Chancellor March 18. . 25 
 
 103 To the same. On the same subject April 1. . 28 
 
 104 To the same. The dignity of the Latin language ; on 
 
 parenthesis April 27. . 30 
 
 105 To the same. Dr. Franklin's letter; providential 
 
 escape of Captain Cook May 27. . 33 
 
 10G To the same. On the anxiety of an author. June 12. . 3~ 
 
 107 To the same. Dispensations of Providence.. July 10". . 40 
 
 108 To the same. Account of a viper in the green-house; 
 
 poems of Madame Guion August 8. . 44
 
 x CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. l'-ige. 
 
 The Colubriad, a sportive poem 49 
 
 Three songs written for Lady Austen's harpsichord 51 
 
 The origin of the pleasant poem of John Gilpin. 56 
 
 109 To the Rev. W. Unwin. John Gilpin's feats. Nov. 4 . . 58 
 
 110 To die same. On a charitable donation to the poor 
 
 ofOlney Nov. 18.. 6l 
 
 1 1 1 To the same. Dr. Beattie ; translation of Madame 
 
 Guion's poems 64 
 
 1/33. 
 
 112 To the, same. Mr. 's charity and benevolence. 
 
 Jan. 19. . 66 
 
 113 To the Rev. J. Newton. Nations act under the di- 
 
 rection of Providence Feb. 8. . 69 
 
 114 To J. Hill, Esq Favorable reception given to his 
 
 poems Feb. 13 . . /O 
 
 115 To the same. Dr. Franklin's letter transcribed. . . . 
 
 Feb. 20. . 71 
 
 1 16 To the same. Nations like ants; etching of the late 
 
 chancellor 73 
 
 11/ To the Rev. J. Newton. Reflections on the illness 
 
 of a friend April 5 74 
 
 118 To the same. On simplicity in preaching . . May 5. . 75 
 
 1 19 To the Rev. W. Unwin. On a sermon of Paley's. . 
 
 May 12. . 78 
 
 120 To Joseph Hill., Esq. Loss of friends a tax on long 
 
 life . May 26. . 81 
 
 121 To the Rev. J. Newton. Death of Mrs. C. . May 31. . 82 
 
 122 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Character of the Rev. Mr. 
 
 Bull June 8. . 83 
 
 123 To the Rev. J. Newton. On his ecclesiastical his- 
 
 tory; remarkable mists June )3. . 85 
 
 124 To the same. On religious zeal June 17. . 89 
 
 125 To the same. Translation of Mr. Newton's letter 
 
 into Dutch June 19. . 91
 
 CONTENTS. x\ 
 
 Letter. Page" 
 
 126 To the Rev. J. Newton. His love of home; style of 
 
 Robertson and Gibbon July 27. . 92 
 
 127 To the Rev. W. Unwin. On ballads ; anecdote of 
 
 his goldfinch Aug. 4. . 95 
 
 128 To the same. Madame Guion's poems. . . . Sept. 7. 99 
 
 129 To the Rev. J. Newton. On his recovery from a 
 
 fever; story of a clerk, in a public office. . Sept. 8. . 102 
 
 130 To the same. Description of a visit to Mr. . . . 
 
 Sept. 23. . 105 
 
 131 To the Rev. \V. Unwin. Philosophers happy; air- 
 
 balloons Sept. V9. . 108 
 
 132 To the Rev. J. Newton. Tendency of the Gospel to 
 
 promote the happiness of mankind Oct. 6. . 1 1 1 
 
 133 To the same. On the American Loyalists. . . Oct. . . lid 
 
 134 To J. Hill, Esq. Comforts of a winter evening. . . . 
 
 Oct. 20. . 119 
 
 Origin of the Task 120 
 
 Its progress related in passages from letters to Mr. Bull 1 22 
 
 A sudden end of the poet's intercourse with Lady 
 
 Austen 1 26 
 
 135 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Reflections on the unkind 
 
 behaviour of acquaintance Nov. 10. . 131 
 
 136 To the same. Same subject; L'Estrange's Josephus. 
 
 Nov. 24.. 134 
 Remarks on a poem of Cowper entitled Valediction 137 
 
 137 To the same. Account of Mr. and Mrs. Throckmorton. 140 
 
 1784. 
 
 138 To the same. East India Company's Charter. Jan. 3.. 144 
 
 139 To the Rev. J. Newton. Departure of the old year. 
 
 Jan. is. . 1 is 
 
 140 To the Rev. W. Unwin. State of departed ipirits. . 
 
 Jjn. IJO 
 
 141 To the Rev. J. Newton. On East India affairs; lines 
 
 of Dr. Jortin translated Jan. 25. . 155
 
 xii CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 142 To the Rev. J. Newton. Title and motto for a work 
 
 of Mr. Newton's Feb. 1. . 15Q 
 
 143 To the same. Our forefathers not nervous; Adam, 
 
 as he appeared in a dream ,Feb. 10. . l6l 
 
 144 To the same. Secret charity at Olney ; parliamen- 
 
 tary debates Feb. . . 165 
 
 145 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Difficulty in writing to 
 
 strangers Feb. 2g. . 168 
 
 146 To the Rev. J. Newton. On the Theological Mis- 
 
 cellany; Caraccioli March 8. . 171 
 
 147 To the same. Style and spirit of Mr. Newton's apo- 
 
 logy; East India patronage March 11. . 1/3 
 
 148 To the same. Works of Caraccioli March 19. . 1/5 
 
 149 To the same. Visit of a candidate . . , . . March 29. . 177 
 
 150 To the same. Danger of trifling with our Maker; 
 
 earthquake in Calabria April .'.181 
 
 151 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Beattie and Blair; origin 
 
 of language April 5. . 183 
 
 152 To the same. Observations on Blair's Lectures. . . . 
 
 April 25. . 187 
 
 153 To the Rev. J. Newton. Difference of style between 
 
 Beattie and Blair April 26. . 190 
 
 154 To the Rev. W. Unwin. On face-painting. .May 3. . 194 
 
 155 To the same. Declines writing a sequel to John Gil- 
 
 pin May 8. . 199 
 
 156 To the Rev. J. Newton. Dr. Johnson's favorable 
 
 opinion of his poems ", May 22. . 202 
 
 157 To the same. Same subject June 25. . 204 
 
 158 To the Rev. \V. Unwin. Tax on candles. . July 3. . 205 
 
 159 To the Rev. J. Newton. Mythology of the an- 
 
 cients ; the new taxes July 5. . 208 
 
 160 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Vincent Bourne; Hume's 
 
 essay on suicide July 12. . 213 
 
 161 To the Rev. J. Newton. Madness sometimes humor- 
 
 ous and sometimes whimsical July 19. 2l6
 
 CONTENTS. Kill 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 162 To the Rev. J. Newton. Pleasant situation of Lym- 
 
 ington; Mr. Gilpin July 28. . 21J 
 
 163 To the Rev. "W. Unwin. On the inhabitants of the 
 
 islands in the Pacific ocean August 14. . 220 
 
 164 To the Rev. J. Newton. Capt. Cook's last voyage. . 
 
 August 16. . 223 
 
 165 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Publication of the Task. . 
 
 Sept. ll. .226 
 
 166 To J. Hill, Esq. Dr. Cotton truly a philosopher. . . 
 
 Sept. 11.. 229 
 
 167 To the Rev. J. Newton. Effect of sounds.. Sept. 18 . 230 
 
 168 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Punctuation of blank verse. 
 
 Oct. 2. . 233 
 lCO To the Rev. J. Newton. On unconnected thoughts; 
 
 death of Captain Cook October Q. . 236 
 
 1/0 To the Rev. W. Unwin. The tendency of the Task, 
 
 and of all his writings October 10. . 240 
 
 1/1 To the same. On his poem Tirocinium . . Oct. 20. . 243 
 172 To the Rev. J. Newton. Sandwich Islanders. . . . 
 
 October 30. . 248 
 1/3 To the Rev. \V. Unwin. Reasons why an author 
 
 may wish to keep his work secret Nov. 1 . . 25 1 
 
 174 To J. Hill, Esq. On the death of his mother 
 
 November. . 254 
 1/5 To the Rev. J. Newton. His poems, the Task and 
 
 Tirocinium November 27- . 256 
 
 176 To the Rev. \V. Unwin. Same subject. . . Nov. 29. . 2(X) 
 
 177 To the Rev. J. Newton. On the titles to the differ- 
 
 ent books of the Task December 13. . 263 
 
 178 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Inscription of Tirocinium ; 
 
 compliment to Bishop Bagot December 18. . 266 
 
 179 To the Rev. J. Newton. On his poem being called 
 
 the Task December 24. . 270 
 
 180 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Subject of his poem Tiro- 
 
 cinium 271
 
 xiv CONTENTS. 
 
 1785. 
 Letter. Page 
 
 181 To the Rev W. Unwin. Death of Dr. Johnson, and 
 
 an epitaph on him January 15. . 273 
 
 1 82 To the same. On two small poems, the Poplar Field 
 
 and the Rose ' February 7- -"277 
 
 183 To the same. Reflections on the impatience of au- 
 
 thors March 20. . 2S 1 
 
 184 To the same. Celebrity of John Gilpin . . April 30. . 281 
 
 185 To J. Hill, Esq Description of his houdoir at Olney. 
 
 June 25. . 288 
 1S6 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Account of a violent thun- 
 der storm July 2/. . 2<)0 
 
 187 To the same. Dr. Johnson's journal. . . . Aug. 27. . . 294 
 Cowper's correspondence with Lady Hesketh renewed 
 
 by the publication of his second volume 298 
 
 1 S8 To Lady Hesketh. On her return -to England. . . 
 
 Oct. 12. .299 
 
 189 To the Re\\ W. Unwin. Translation of Homer. . . 
 
 Oct. 22. . 303 
 
 190 To Lady Hesketh. Obligations to a friend not irk- 
 
 some ; some account of his affairs Nov. 9. . 306 
 
 191 To the same. Disinterestedness of his affection 311 
 
 192 To the Rev. \V. Bagot. Bishop Bagot's charge. . . 
 
 Nov. 9. .313 
 
 193 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Publishing his Homer by 
 
 subscription. Dec. 24. . 314 
 
 194 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Same subject Dec. 24. . 3 1 6 
 
 195 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Same subject 3 anecdotes 
 
 of the poor at Olney Dec. 31 . .317 
 
 1786. 
 19G To Lady Hesketh. Correcting his poems. Jan. 10. . 321 
 197 To the Rev. W. Unwin. On his visiting Lady Hes- 
 keth ; on Homer Jan. 14. 324 
 
 x 98 To the Rev. \V. Bagot. Translation of Homer. . . 
 
 Jan. 15. .325
 
 CONTENTS. xv 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 10ft To the same. Dr. Maty's opinion of the Task. . . 
 
 Jan. 23. 328 
 
 200 To Lady Hesketh. On receiving a snuffbox, with 
 
 portraits of his three hares Jan. 31. . 330 
 
 201 To the same. On her promised visit to Olney. Feb. g. . 335 
 
 202 To the same. Vexations attendant on a variety of 
 
 criticisms ; the Chancellor's promise. . . . Feb. 11.. 338 
 
 203 To the same. On their expected meeting at Olney; 
 
 Homer Feb. 1Q. . 341 
 
 204 To the Rev. W. Bagot. Death of Mrs. Bagot. Feb. 2/. 345 
 
 205 To Lady Hesketh. Elisions, in some instances al- 
 
 lowable March G. . 346 
 
 21(5 To the Rev. W. Unwin. On the translation of Ho- 
 mer March 13. . 351 
 
 207 To J. Hill, Esq. Same subject April 5. . 353 
 
 208 To Lady Hesketh. ' On her postponing her visit ; 
 
 description of the vicarage April '7- 354 
 
 20ft To the same. Her letters his comfort April 24. . 358 
 
 210 To the same. Dr. Maty's critique on his Homer; 
 
 description of his own feelings May 8. . 3Gl 
 
 211 To the same. Pain and pleasure on the sight of a 
 
 long-absent friend May 15. . 3G8 
 
 212 To the Rev. W. Bagot. Submission to the will of 
 
 God; Horace's advice to authors May 20. . 3/3 
 
 213 To Lady Hesketh.' Gives up meeting her at New- 
 
 port ; lines in the Task ; state of his nerves. . 
 
 May 25. . 377 
 
 214 To the same. Beauties of the spring ; his spirits less 
 
 depressed May 29. . 382 
 
 215 To the same. His feelings on her expected arrival; 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Throckmorton June 4 and 5. . 385 
 
 2lG To J. Hill, Esq. His time much occupied by Ho- 
 mer ; the Chancellor's illness June O. . 38.0 
 
 Visit of Lady Heskelh to CowptT, at Olney . . 391 
 
 Extracts from his letters to the Rev. Mr. I5l.11 393 
 
 Poem on Friendship 3pG
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 Cowper's Residence in Olney 1 
 
 His removal to Weston 3 
 
 First mention of Mr. Rose, the barrister ibid. 
 
 1/86. 
 
 217 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Lady Hesketh's visit, and the 
 
 village of Weston < June 1Q. . 4 
 
 218 To the Rev. W. Unwin. The arrival of Lady Hesketh, 
 
 residence in Olney 5 Latin books for young readers. 
 
 July 3. . 5 
 
 219 To the Rev. Walter Bagot. Revisal of his Homer. 
 
 July 4. . 9 
 
 220 To the Rev. W. Unwin. On his Homer. . . Aug. 24. . 12 
 
 221 To the same. On his compositions 14 
 
 222 To the same. His state of mind. Verses to Miss C. 
 
 on her birth day 16 
 
 223 To the same. On declining to write on a subject pro- 
 
 posed to him 18 
 
 224 To the same. Letter writing, illustrated by a Simile 
 
 in rhyme state of the nation 20 
 
 225 To the same. On his poem of the Lily and the Rose. . 23 
 
 226 To the same. The poet Churchill 24 
 
 227 To the same. First poetry, a translated elegy of Ti- 
 
 bullus .27 
 
 228 To the Rev. Walter Bagot. Milton's blank verse, and 
 
 revisal of his Homer Aug. '31. .29 
 
 229 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Mischance that happened to 
 
 part of his translation of Homer Oct. 6. . 32
 
 CONTENTS. xril 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 2i0 To the Rev. Walter Bagot. Change of habitation. 
 
 Nov. 1/. .35 
 
 231 To Lady Hesketh. A poet's hermitage. . . . Nov. 26. . 35 
 
 232 To T the same. On the death of Mr. Unwin. . Dec. 4. . 38 
 
 233 To R. Smith, Esq. On the same subject. . . . Dec. 9. . 41 
 
 234 To Lady Hesketh. On the same subject. . . . Dec 9. . 44 
 
 235 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On the same subject. . Dec. 9. . 46 
 
 236 To Lady Hesketh. On praise to a poet. . . Dec. 21. . 47 
 
 1787. 
 
 237 To the Rev. Walter Bagot. Homer's descriptions of 
 
 slaughter ; praise of the author, and Mr. Unwin. 
 
 Jan. 3. .4Q 
 
 238 To Lady Hesketh. On Homer, and his song of the 
 
 rose Jan. 8. . 51 
 
 239 To the same. Obliged by indisposition to suspend his 
 
 Homer j on dreams, and a visit from Mr. Rose. 
 
 Jan. 18. .54 
 2-10 To S. Rose, Esq. His indisposition ; Burns's poems. 
 
 July 24. . 5/ 
 
 241 To the same. On his reviving health; Barclay's Ar- 
 
 genis, and Burns Aug 27. . 58 
 
 242 To Lady Hesketh. On the family at Weston Hall. 
 
 Aug. 30. .61 
 
 243 To the same. Books he had read Sept. 4. . 63 
 
 244 To the same. On a lady whom he met at the hall. 
 
 Sept. 15.". 65 
 
 245 To the same. On the memoirs of Baron de Tott. 
 
 Sept. 29. . 66 
 
 246 To S. Rose, Esq. On leaving the country after the 
 
 death of his father. ., Oct. 19. . 68 
 
 247 To Lady Hesketh. On a kitten and a leech. The 
 
 Retired Cat, a poem Nov. 10. . 70 
 
 248 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On his own studies. . Nov. 16. . 76 
 
 249 To Lady Hesketh- Beauties of Weston; the clerk 
 
 vol. 1. c
 
 xviii CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 of Northampton j on a paper in the Mirror ; anec- 
 dote of a beggar Nov. 2/ . . J J 
 
 250 To the same. On his neighbours Dec. 4. . 80 
 
 251 To the Rev. W. Bagot. On Homer and Bishop Bagot. 
 
 Dec. 6. . 82 
 
 252 To Lady Hesketh. On a ball, and his translation. 
 
 Dec. 10. 85 
 
 253 To S. Rose, Esq. On his Homer ; talents given by 
 
 nature Dec. 13. 8/ 
 
 1788. 
 
 254 To Lady Hesketh. On verses by Mr. Merry; ino- 
 
 culation Jan. 1 . pO 
 
 255 To the Rev. W. Bagot. On Bishop Bagot and his 
 
 Homer Jan. 5. . 03 
 
 256 To Lady Hesketh. Reasons for 'writing few occa- 
 sional poems; on a print of Bunbury's Jan. 19. .90 
 
 25/ To the same On his own anxiety Jan. 30. . 99 
 
 258 To the same. On trouble as the portion of mortal- 
 
 ity ; on reading a book of his Iliad to Mr. Great- 
 heed Feb. 1 .101 
 
 259 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Improvement of time; on 
 
 the reflection of Glaucus Feb. 14. . 103 
 
 260 To Lady Hesketh. On his own melancholy; Han- 
 
 nah More, and Hastings's trial Feb. 1 6. . 100 
 
 261 To the same. On Burke's invective Feb. 22. . 10p 
 
 262 To the same. A fox. chace March 3. . 1 1 2 
 
 263. To the same. On the book entitled " The Manners 
 
 of the Great." March 12. . 1 14 
 
 264. To General Cowper. On his poem upon the slave 
 
 trade. The Morning Dream, a ballad 11/ 
 
 265 To the Rev. W. Bagot. On " The manners of the 
 
 Great," and his Homer March 19. . 120 
 
 266 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Depression of spirits. Dr. 
 
 Clarke 122
 
 CONTENTS. xix 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 26/ To Lady Hesketh. On his poem upon the slave 
 
 trade March31. . 125 
 
 268 To the same. Smollet's Don Quixote; on his friend 
 
 Mr. Rowley May 6. . 126 
 
 269 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Books that he had lost. 
 
 May 8. . 129 
 2/0 To Lady Hesketh. On Mrs. Montague. . May 12. . 130 
 
 271 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On two prints, Crazy Kate, 
 
 and the Lace-maker; bust of Paris May 24. . 132 
 
 272 To Lady Hesketh. Same subject ; Mrs. Montague. 
 
 May 27. . 134 
 
 273 To the same. Sufferings from the East-wind; extra- 
 
 ordinary advertisement of a dancing-master. June 3. 136 
 
 274 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Death of Ashley Cowper. 
 
 June 8. . 138 
 
 275 To Lady Hesketh. On the same subject. . June 10. . 139 
 
 276 To the same. On the same subject June 15. . 141 
 
 277 To the Rev. Walter Bagot. On scenes of horror. 
 
 June 17. . 143 
 
 278 To S. Rose, Esq. On a dry season June 23. . 145 
 
 279 To Lady Hesketh. On his own expectations; anec- 
 
 dote of his dog Beau June 27. . 148 
 
 280 To the same. On the lime walk at Weston; ac- 
 
 count of living authors July 28. . 151 
 
 281 To the same. Favorable reception of the Task; Mr. 
 
 Bacon, the sculptor Aug. 9. . 154 
 
 282 To S. Rose, Esq. Solicitude for a friend. . Aug. 18. . 155 
 
 283 To the same. On the Oak called Judith; on impro- 
 
 per fears Sept. 11.. 158 
 
 Verses on a Spaniel 160 
 
 284 To the same. A riddle on finishing the Iliad; death 
 
 of a bullfinch Sept. 25. . 162 
 
 285 To the same. Vincent Bourne ; invitation to his friend. 
 
 Nov. 30. . 164 
 
 286 To Robert Smith, Esq Dec. 20. 106 
 
 c 2
 
 xx CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. Page, 
 
 I/89. 
 
 287 To S. Rose, Esq. On memory; Sir J. Hawkins. 
 
 Jan. 19. . 168 
 
 288 To the same. On accidents Jan. 24. . 169 
 
 2SQ To the Rev. W. Bagot. Progress in Homer. . Jan. 29. . I/O 
 289*To S.Rose, Esq. On Hawkins Brown.. . May 20. . 1/2 
 
 Poem on the Queen's visit to London 174 
 
 290 To the same. Cuckow clocks; Boswell's Tour. 
 
 June 5. . 177 
 
 291 To the Rev. W. Bagot. Compliments on the mar- 
 
 riage of his friend June 16. . 1 79 
 
 292 To S. Rose, Esq. On Hawkins and Boswell. June 20. . 181 
 
 293 To Mrs. Throckmorton. Poetical talents of a friend; 
 
 incidents at the Hall July 18. . 182 
 
 294 To S. Rose, Esq. Improvement of time in early life. 
 
 July 23. . 184 
 
 295 To the same. Mrs. Piozzi's travels Aug. 8. . 186 
 
 296 To the same. Variations in our summers; remark 
 
 on Mr. L Sept. 24. . 1 87 
 
 297 To the same. On receiving several presents; a spor- 
 
 tive imitation of the Odyssey Oct. 4. . 188 
 
 298 To Joseph Hill, Esq. French revolution. . Dec. 18. . 190 
 
 299 To the Rev. W. Bagot. On Villoison's Homer 191 
 
 300 To the same. The same subject 19:; 
 
 1790. 
 
 301 To S. Rose, Esq. On his health ; remarks on a pas- 
 
 sage in Homer Jan. 3 . . 1 96 
 
 302 To Lady Hesketh. On his kinsman's poem ; expec- 
 
 tation of the critics on his Homer Jan. 23. . 19s 
 
 303 To S. Rose, Esq. Bentley's remarks on Homer. 
 
 Feb. 2. . 200 
 
 304 To Lady Heskeih. Verses to Mrs. Throckmorton. 
 
 Feb. 9. . 202 
 
 305 To Lady Hesketh. Anxiety frr a female relation; 
 
 on receiving his Mother's picture Feb. 26. . 2C4
 
 CONTENTS. xxi 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 306 To Mrs. Bodham. On his Mother's picture. . Feb. 27. . 2C6 
 
 307 To J.Johnson, Esq. Praise of Mrs. Bodham 5 invi- 
 
 tation to Weston Feb. 28.. 210 
 
 308 To Lady Hesketh. On the Test Act. . . .March 8. . 213 
 
 309 To S. Rose, Esq. Solicitude for his friend's health. 
 
 March 11. .215 
 
 310 To Mrs. Throckmorton. A lady's remarks on his 
 
 Homer March 21. .217 
 
 311 To Lady Hesketh. On the style he introduced in 
 
 his translation of Homer March 22. .218 
 
 312 To J. Johnson, Esq. Remarks on Longinus. March 23. . 221 
 
 313 To the same. On Lavater; particular studies recom- 
 
 mended April 17.. 224 
 
 314 To Lady Hesketh. Completion of his translation. 
 
 April 19 .226 
 
 315 To the same. On pictures of both his parents. 
 
 April 30.. 228 
 
 316 To Mrs. Throckmorton.. Village incidents. . May 10. . 229 
 
 317 To Lady Hesketh May 28. . 231 
 
 ,318 To the same. On a poetical application. . . . June 3. . 232 
 
 3 1 9 To J . Johnson, Esq. On particular studLs. . June 7. . 233 
 
 320 To S. Rose, Esq. On early marriages ; a riddle. 
 
 June 8 .235 
 
 321 To Lady Hesketh. Reflections on seeing an old wo- 
 
 man. Two Inscriptions for a Grove of Oaks. 
 
 June 1/ . 23/ 
 
 322 To the Rev. W. Bagot. African serpents and ants; 
 
 On Bishop Bagot's removal June 22. .239 
 
 323 To Mrs. BoJham. On letter- writing June 29. . 241 
 
 324 To Lady Hesketh. Mrs. Unwin's illness; on the 
 
 French revolution July 7- 244 
 
 325 To J. Johnson, Esq. Danger of music engrossing too 
 
 much time A . . . . July 8. 246 
 
 326 To the same. Cautions against an heedless inatten- 
 
 tion to friends J uly 3 ! .248
 
 xxii C O N T FTN T S. 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 327 To Mrs. Bodham. Mr. Johnson's carrying his Ho- 
 
 mer to London Sept. 9. . 24Q 
 
 328 To S. Rose, Esq. On his marriage ; preface to Homer 
 
 Sept. 13. .251 
 
 329 To Mrs. Bodham. On the joys and sorrows of in- 
 
 fancy Nov. 21.. 254 
 
 330 To J. Johnson, Esq. Visit from the Dowager Lady 
 
 Spencer Nov. 26. . 255 
 
 331 To S. Rose, Esq. Prediction of future eminence in 
 
 his profession Nov. 30. . 257 
 
 332 To the Rev. W. Bagot. Translation of Homer: on 
 
 the office of poet laureat Dec. 1. . 259 
 
 333 To J. Johnson, Esq. King's College subscription ; 
 
 family of the Donnes Dec. 18. . 26l 
 
 1791. 
 
 334 To the Rev. W. Bagot. Long and short syllables in 
 
 the English language Jan. 4 . . 263 
 
 335 To J. Johnson, Esq. Amiable singularities of his 
 
 character Jan. 21. . 265 
 
 336 To S. Rose, Esq. His present of Pope's Homer. . 
 
 Feb. 5. . 267 
 
 337 To Lady Hesketh. Fame not an empty breath. . . 
 
 Feb. 13.. 268 
 
 338 To the Rev. W. Bagot. Blank verse the English 
 
 heroick , . . . Feb. 26. . 269 
 
 339 To J. Johnson, Esq. On the subscriptions from Cam- 
 
 bridge, Oxford, and the Scotch universities. . . . 
 
 Feb. 27. . 272 
 
 340 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Preface to the translation of 
 
 Homer March 6. . 2/4 
 
 341 To the same. Achilles in the attitude of a dancing- 
 
 master * March 10. . 275 
 
 342 To the Rev. W. Bagot. On the critical talents of 
 
 Dr. Johnson March 16.. 276
 
 CONTENTS. xx iii 
 
 Lecter. Pagfr 
 
 343 To J. Johnson, Esq. On the poems of the Norwich 
 
 Maid March 19. . 2/8 
 
 344 To S. Rose, Esq. His Homer calculated at less than 
 
 the seventh part of a farthing per line. . March 24. . 280 
 
 345 To Lady Hesketh. God no more a respecter of wit 
 
 than he is of persons March 25. . 282 
 
 346 To Mrs. Throckmorton. Little success of applica- 
 
 tion to the university of Oxford April 1 . . 285 
 
 347 To J. Johnson, Esq. Brilliant collection of names 
 
 from Cambridge April 6. . 287 
 
 348 To S.Rose, Esq. General success of the subscription. 
 
 April 29. . 288 
 
 349 To the Rev. W. Bagot. Mr. Bagot ; Milton's Latin 
 
 poems May 2. . 289 
 
 350 To Lady Hesketh. Letter from Dr. Cogswell, from 
 
 New York May 18. . 291 
 
 351 To J. Johnson, Esq. Translation of the frogs and 
 
 mice j Judgment of the Poets. . . May 23. . 292 
 
 352 To Lady Hesketh. Delays of printers} confidence 
 
 in government May 27. . 296 
 
 353 To S. Rose, Esq. Man an ungrateful animal. . . . 
 
 June 13. .298 
 
 354 To Dr. James Cogswell. On the Task, and his 
 
 other poems 300 
 
 Conclusion of the second part 302 
 
 LIFE OF COWPER, PART THE THIRD. 
 
 The origin of his translations from Milton 309 
 
 The origin of his acquaintance with Mr. Hayley 311 
 
 355 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis. Invitation to Weston ; Sir 
 
 Thomas More March 6 . . 3 1 5 
 
 356 To the same. On the time of the publication of his 
 
 Homer June 1 3 . . 3 1 7 
 
 357 To the Rev. W. Bagot. Lady Bagot's visit to Weston. 
 
 August 2.. 320
 
 xxiv CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 358 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis. On his mode of study at 
 
 Weston Aug. Q. . 322 
 
 S5Q To J. Johnson, Esq. On the subject of a new work . . 325 
 360 To S. Rose, Esq. Translation of Milton's Italian and 
 
 Latin Poems Sept. J4. . 326 
 
 3(3l To the Rev. W. Bagot. Milton's elegy on the death 
 
 of the Bishop of Winchester Sept. 21. . 327 
 
 362 To the same. Upon a poem of Lord Bagot's. . . 
 
 Oct. 25. . . 329 
 
 363 To J. Johnson, Esq. On his Sister's recovery 
 
 Oct. 31. .332 
 
 364 To J. Hill, Esq. On the antipathy to compound 
 
 epithets Nov. 14. . 334 
 
 365 To the Rev. W. Bagot. Translation of Homer and 
 
 Milton Dec. 5. .335 
 
 366 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis. On original composition 
 
 and translation Dec. 10. . 338 
 
 367 To S. Rose, Esq. Mrs. Unwin's illness. . . Dec. 21. . 340 
 
 1792. 
 
 368 To the Rev, W. Bagot. On his children's recovery. 
 
 Feb. 14. . 341 
 
 369 To the Lord Thurlow. On his translation of Homer.. 344 
 
 370 To W. Cowper, Esq. from Lord Thurlow. On 
 
 rhyme; on translation ; his lordship*s version of 
 the speech of Achilles to Phoenix 346 
 
 371 To the Lord Thurlow. On the same subjects 351 
 
 372 To William Cowper, Esq from Lord Thurlow. Blank 
 
 verse fittest for a translation of Homer 354 
 
 373 To the Lord Thurlow. His satisfaction at his lord- 
 
 ship's being pleased with his translation 355 
 
 374 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis. Acknowledgment of his 
 
 friendly remarks on Homer Feb. 21 355 
 
 375 To the same. Continuation of the same.. . March 2. . 358 
 
 376 To J. Johnson, Esq. The mildness of the spring j 
 
 with an ode to the Nightingale March 11.. 360
 
 CONTENTS. XX y 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 377 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis. On his tragedy of Sir Tho- 
 mas More March 23. . 363 
 
 3/8 To Lady Hesketh. On receiving the first letter from 
 
 Mr. Hayley March 25. . 364 
 
 379 To S. Rose, Esq. On a poem of Mr. Park's. . 
 
 March 30. . 366 
 
 380 To the same. Printers tiresome April 5. . 367 
 
 381 To W. Hayley, Esq. Invitation to Weston ; charac- 
 
 ter of Mrs. Unwin April 6. . 368 
 
 382 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis. Comparison of his unan- 
 
 swered letters with the leaves in autumn. . April 8. .371 
 
 383 To Lady Throckmorton. On appropriating the pro- 
 
 duction of others to ourselves; on calumniation; a 
 sonnet to Wilberforce April 16. . 3/3 
 
 384 To the Rev. J. Jekyll Rye. Abhorrence of the slave- 
 
 trade April 16. . 3/6 
 
 385 To Lady Hesketh. With some lines to Warren Hastings. 
 
 May 20. . 3~9 
 
 386 To J. Johnson, Esq. On the subject of his ordination. 
 
 May 20. .381 
 
 Mr. Hayley's visit to Weston 383 
 
 Sonnet, to Mrs. Unwin 384 
 
 387 To Lady Hesketh. Mrs. Unwin's second attack. 
 
 May 24. . 388 
 
 388 To the same. The same subject ; lines to Dr. Austen. 
 
 May 26. . 390 
 
 389 To Mrs. Bodham. On the subject of early ordination. 
 
 June 4. .392 
 
 390 To W. Hayley, Esq. On Mrs. Unwin's amended health. 
 
 June 4..393 
 
 391 To the same. Same subject Juno 5. . MJ\ 
 
 392 To the same. His attachment to Mr. Hayley; and 
 
 his own melancholy June 7. .396 
 
 393 To the same. The Christian resignation of Mrs. Un- 
 
 win; a poem to Dr Darwin June 10. . 398
 
 xxu CONTENT! 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 394 To Lady Hesketh. Mrs.Unwin'&gradoal recovery, &c. 
 
 June 11.. 40I 
 
 395 ToW.Hayley,Esq. On the projected visit to Eartham. 
 
 June 19. . 403 
 3g$ To the same. Same subject ; Iiues to Catharina. 
 
 June 2/. .405 
 
 3Q7 To the same. Upon the Life of Milton July 4. . 408 
 
 3p8 To the same. On Abbot's picture of him. . July 15. . 409 
 
 399 To the same. The day fixed for their journey to 
 
 Eartham - July 22. . 411 
 
 400 To the same. Fears and distresses before setting out - r 
 
 his picture finished July 29. . 413 
 
 Cowper's arrival at Eartham 415 
 
 401 To the Rev. Mr. Greatheed. Description of Eartham; 
 
 the journey thither Aug. 6. . 419 
 
 402 To Mrs.Courtenay. Same subject Aug. 12. . 421 
 
 403 To S. Rose, Esq. Wishes him at Eartham. Aug. 14. . 423 
 
 404 To the same. Same subject ; Mrs. Unwin's and his 
 
 own health Aug. 18.. 424 
 
 Memoirs of Samuel Rose, Esq 425
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 VOL. IV. 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 Return to Cowper at Eartham 1 
 
 1792. 
 
 405 To Mrs. Courtenay. Manner of spending his time 
 
 at Eartham; epitaph on Fop Aug. 25. . 1 
 
 406 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis. On the death of his sister; 
 
 invitation to Eartham Aug. 26. . 4 
 
 407 To Lady Hesketh. Improvement in his health; his 
 
 portrait by Romney Aug. 26. . 7 
 
 408 To the same. On the beautiful scenery of Eartham; 
 
 regrets on leaving it Sept. 9. . 9 
 
 Cowper's return to Weston 11 
 
 409 To W. Hayley, Esq. Account of his journey. . . . 
 
 Sept. 18.. 12 
 
 410 To the same. Same subject; visit to General Cow- 
 
 per ; to Mr. Rose, &c Sept. 21 . . 13 
 
 411 To the same. His spirits sink on the approach of 
 
 winter Oct. 2. . 15 
 
 412 To the same. Full of affectionate regard; on Hay- 
 
 ley's verses to Dr. Austin Oct. 13. . 17 
 
 413 To J. Johnson, Esq. Regret for his absence; on a 
 
 sonnet to Romney Oct. lg. . 19 
 
 414 To the same. Moral reflection on sitting for a pic- 
 
 ture Oct. 22. . 20 
 
 415 To W. Hayley, Esq. Difficulty of exertion; sonnet 
 
 to Romney Oct. 28. . 2 1 
 
 416 To S. Rose, Esq. Compliment on his professional 
 
 industry ; hopes of future success Nov. 9. . 23
 
 xxviii CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. Page 
 
 417 To J. Johnson, Esq. Difficulty in commencing his 
 
 Milton ; lowness of spirits Nov. 20. . 26 
 
 418 To \V. Hayley, Esq. Same subject Nov. 25. . 27 
 
 419 To J. Hill, Esq. Politics of the day Dec. 16. . 29 
 
 420 To W. Hayley, Esq. On his confinement in conse- 
 
 quence of his translating Milton Dec. 26. . 31 
 
 1/93. 
 
 421 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis. On the illness of Miss 
 
 Hurdis Jan. 6. . 33 
 
 422 To the same. On the arrival of Mr. Hayley's pic- 
 
 ture Jan. 20. . 34 
 
 423 To the same. On the death of a friend . . . Jan. 29. . 36 
 
 424 To S. Rose, Esq. His translation of Homer . Feb. 5. . 38 
 
 425 To Lady Hesketh. Toryism of Lady Hesketh and 
 
 Mrs. Rose Feb. 10. . 39 
 
 426 To S. Rose, Esq. On the Analytical Review of his 
 
 Homer Feb. 17.. 40 
 
 427 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis. Professorship of Poetry ; 
 
 discoveries in natural history Feb. 22. . 42 
 
 428 To W. Hayley, Esq. His dream respecting Milton. 
 
 Feb. 24. . 44 
 
 429 To the Rev. W. Bagot. Republicans of France. . . 
 
 March 4. . 47 
 
 430 To Mr. T. Hayley. On Mr. T. Hayley's strictures 
 
 on his Homer March 14. . 48 
 
 Mr. T. Hayley's letter to Cowper 51 
 
 431 To W. Hayley, Esq. Revisal of his Homer. Mar. 19. . 52 
 
 432 To S. Rose, Esq. Revised translation of Homer. . . 
 
 March 27. . 54 
 
 433 To John Johnson, Esq. Mr. Johnson's resolution to 
 
 take holy orders April 11.. 56 
 
 434 To W. Hayley, Esq. On the notes to his Homer. . 
 
 April 23. . 58 
 
 435 To the Rev. W. Bagot. On the death of those we 
 
 love May 4. . 59
 
 CONTENTS. xxix 
 
 Letter. p age . 
 
 436 To S. Rose, Esq. On the notes of his Homer. . . . 
 
 May 5. . 60 
 
 437 To Lady Hesketh. Toryism of Lady Hesketh. . . . 
 
 May 7.. 62 
 
 438 To W. Hayley, Esq. Distribution of his time 
 
 May 21. . 64 
 43Q To Lady Hesketh. With his verses to a young friend 
 on his arrival at Cambridge wet, when no rain had 
 fallen there June 1 . . 66 
 
 440 ToW. Hayley, Esq. On the proposal of a joint com- 
 
 position June 29. 68 
 
 441 To the same. On his projected poem of the Four 
 
 Ages July 7. . 70 
 
 442 To the Rev. Mr. Greatheed. On Mr. Greatlieed's 
 
 invitation July 17. . 73 
 
 443 To W. Hayley, Esq. Improvements in his garden. 
 
 July 24. . 75 
 
 444 To Lady Hesketh. On his lines and acknowledg- 
 
 ments to Miss Fanshaw August 11.. 77 
 
 445 To W. Hayley, Esq. On his new buildings and im- 
 
 provements August 15. . 79 
 
 446 To Mrs. Courtenay. The treatment of Bob Archer 
 
 by a roguish fiddler August 20. . 82 
 
 447 To S. Rose, Esq. Notes to his Homer. August 22. . 84 
 
 448 To \V. Hayley, Esq. On Flaxman's monument to 
 
 Lord Mansfield August 27. . 85 
 
 449 To Lady Hesketh. On Lady Hesketh's visit to Wes- 
 
 ton August 29 . . 68 
 
 450 To the Rev. Mr. Johnson. Mr. Johnson's present 
 
 of a sun-dial Sept. 6. . 69 
 
 451 To W. Hayley, Esq. On his affected mirth, and 
 
 real melancholy Sept. 8. . 92 
 
 452 To Mrs. Courtenay. On Mr. Johnson's present of a 
 
 sun-dial Sept. 15. . 93
 
 xxx CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 453 To the Rev. Mr. Johnson. On Mr. Johnsons visit to 
 
 Weston Sept. 29. . 96 
 
 454 To \V. Hayley, Esq. On the visits and civilities, 
 
 which wasted his time Oct. 5. . Q? 
 
 45 5 To the same. On Mr. Hayley and his son's visit to 
 
 Weston Oct. 18. . 99 
 
 456 To the Rev. J. Jekyll Rye. On Mr. Hurdis's elec- 
 
 tion to the professorship of poetry at Oxford. 
 
 Nov. 3. . 10O 
 
 The author's second visit to Weston 101 
 
 Lord Spencer's invitation of Cowper to Althorpe 101 
 
 The invitation declined on account of Mrs. Un win's 
 
 health 102 
 
 457 To Mrs. Courtenay. Mr. Hayley's visit. . . Nov. 4. . 103 
 Declining health of Cowper and Mrs. Unwin 105 
 
 458 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Beauties of Weston. .Nov. 5. . 107 
 
 459 To the Rev. W. Bagot. Reflections on the French 
 
 revolution Nov. 10. . 108 
 
 4(50 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis. On Hayley's life of Mil- 
 ton ; his own commentary Nov. 24. . 1 10 
 
 461 To S. Rose, Esq. Subjects for painting recom- 
 
 mended} idea of a joint work with Hayley. 
 
 Nov. 29. .112 
 
 462 To the same. Thanking him for books. Jonathan 
 
 Wild. Man as he is, &c Dec. 8. . 1 14 
 
 463 To W. Hayley, Esq. Uneasy at not hearing from 
 
 him j plan of continuing the Four Ages. . .Dec. 8. 1 16 
 Origin of Cowper's projected poem on the Four Ages 
 
 of Man 117 
 
 464 To the Rev. Mr. Buchanan .118 
 
 Commencement of the poem 121 
 
 The health of Cowper declines 123 
 
 The incident, that gave rise to the two last of his cheer- 
 ful Letters !\ . 126
 
 CONTENTS. xxx\ 
 
 Letter. p age . 
 
 465 To \V. Hayley, Esq. Criticism on the address of 
 
 Hector to his son Dec. 17. . 127 
 
 466 To the same. Same subject Jan. 5. . 129 
 
 The author induced to visit Weston during the severe ill- 
 ness of Cowper by a friendly exhortation from Mr. 
 Greatheed 133 
 
 The sufferings of the invalide 1 33 
 
 The ineffectual sympathy of his friends 136 
 
 The grant of a pension from his Majesty to Cowper. NO 
 
 After remaining at Weston under the care of Lady Hes- 
 
 keth till July 17 Q5, Cowper and Mrs. Un win remove 
 
 to Norfolk under the conduct of his kinsman, the Rev. 
 
 Dr. Johnson 143 
 
 Stanzas to Mary, the last poem composed by Cowper at 
 
 Weston 145 
 
 Cowper resides at North Tuddenham M7 
 
 Removes to Mundsley, a village on the Norfolk coast. ... 149 
 
 Removes to Dereham, and thence to Dunham Lodge 152 
 
 , Induced to revise his Homer in 1795 153 
 
 In September lie visits Mundsley again 153 
 
 In October returns to Dereham, and settles there for the 
 
 winter 154 
 
 Gradual decline and death of Mrs. Unwin 154 
 
 Cowper's solicitude on the last morning of her life; her 
 
 funeral, and tablet to her memory 155 
 
 The obstinate malady of Cowper 156 
 
 Fruitless endeavours to cheer his dejected spirit 15s 
 
 Infinite merit of Dr. Johnson in his care to mitigate the 
 
 calamity of his revered relation 159 
 
 Cowper receives a visit from the Dowager Lady Spencer. . 162 
 Dr. Johnson reads to Cowper his printed and manuscript 
 
 poems 1 62 
 
 Extract from a letter to Lady Hesketh )63 
 
 ]\c receives a visit from Sir John Throckmorton J04
 
 xxxii CO'N TENTS. 
 
 Pig* 
 
 Finishes the revisal of his Homer, 17QQ 164 
 
 Resumes and quits his poem on the Four Ages 165 
 
 Composes a Latin poem 1(55 
 
 His last original poem entitled " The Castaway." 166 
 
 Removes to a larger house in Dereham l6() 
 
 Translates various Latin and Greek verses into English, 
 
 and some fables of Gay into Latin verse l6Q 
 
 1800. 
 Sends an improved version of a passage in his Homer to 
 
 his friend of Eartham 170 
 
 His health becomes more impaired 170 
 
 Receives a visit from Mr. Rose in March , 171 
 
 Declines, and dies on Friday the 25 th pf April 171 
 
 Buried on the 3d of May in the church of Dereham 1/2 
 
 Inscription on his monument 1/3 
 
 Inscription for a monument to Cowper in the metropolis. . 174 
 
 His character, and remarks on his poetry 175 
 
 His opinion of the deference due to criticism, particularly 
 
 from reviews . 190 
 
 Remarks continued to page 251 
 
 Lines composed for a Memorial of Ashley Cowper, Esq.. . 183 
 Letter to Mrs. Charlotte Smith on her poem of the Emi- 
 grants 191 
 
 Extract from a Letter to Mr. Bull 198 
 
 On seeing a Sketch of Cowper by Lawrence 212 
 
 Verses to his Cousin, Anne Bodham, on receiving from her 
 
 a network Purse, made by herself, May 4, 1/93 224 
 
 To Mrs. King, on her kind present to the Author, a 
 
 patchwork Quilt of her own making 225 
 
 Gratitude, addressed to Lady Hesketh 226 
 
 Epistle to a Lady in France, a person of great Piety, and 
 
 much afflicted 22Q 
 
 Extracts from letters to. Mr. Johnson . .- 236 
 
 Memorandums in a copy of Clarke's Homer 243, 244 
 
 Extract from a letter to Mr. Rose 244
 
 CONTENT'S. xxxiii 
 
 Page. 
 
 Postscript. Death of Lady Austen 253 
 
 Epitaph on that lady 254 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 No. 1 . Original Poems 259 
 
 To John Johnson, on his presenting me with an 
 antique Bust of Homer 2o() 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Newton on his return from 
 Ramsgatc 260 
 
 Love abused. 26l 
 
 Epitaph on Mr. Chester, of Chicheley 20'2 
 
 on Mrs. M. Higgins, of Weston ib. 
 
 To Count Gravina, on his translating the Author's 
 Song on a Rose, into Italian Verse 263 
 
 Inscription for a Stone erected at the Sowing of a 
 Grove of Oaks at Chillington, the Seat of 'J'. 
 GifFord, Esq. 1 790 ib. 
 
 for an Hermitage, in the Author's 
 
 Garden 264 
 
 Stanzas 00 the late indecent Liberties taken with 
 the Remains of the Great Milton, Anno 1790. ib. 
 
 A Tale, founded on a Fact, which happened in Ja- 
 nuary, 1 779 266 
 
 ATale 268 
 
 Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by a Lady, in 
 returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's lent to the 
 Writer, on condition she should neither bhow it, 
 nor take a Copy 272 
 
 Cowper's Reply 273 
 
 Devotional Stanzas. A Fragment ib. 
 
 No. 2. Translations of Greek Verses 275 
 
 From the Greek of Julianus ib. 
 
 On the same by Palaadas ib. 
 
 An Epitaph 276 
 
 Another ih. 
 
 vol. 1. d
 
 xxxir CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 An Epitaph 277 
 
 Another ib. 
 
 By Callimachus ib. 
 
 On Miltiades 278 
 
 On an Infant ib. 
 
 By Heraclides 279 
 
 On the Reed ib. 
 
 To Health 280 
 
 On the Astrologers ib. 
 
 On an Old Woman 281 
 
 On Invalides ib- 
 
 On Flatterers ib. 
 
 To the Swallow 282 
 
 On late acquired Wealth ib. 
 
 On a true Friend 283 
 
 On a Bath, by Plato ib. 
 
 On a Fowler, by Isidorus ib. 
 
 On Niobe 284 
 
 On a good Man t . ib 
 
 On a Miser 285 
 
 Another ib. 
 
 Another ib. 
 
 On Female Inconstancy 286 
 
 On the Grasshopper ib. 
 
 On Hermocratia 288 
 
 From Menander ib- 
 
 On Pallas Bathing, from a Hymn of Callimachus. . 289 
 
 To Demosthenis 29O 
 
 On a similar Character ib. 
 
 On an ugly Fellow 291 
 
 On a battered Beauty ib. 
 
 On a Thief 292 
 
 On Pedigree, from Epicharmus ib. 
 
 On Envy 293 
 
 By Philemon 2g4
 
 CONTENTS. xxxv 
 
 Page. 
 
 By Moschus 294 
 
 N 3. Translations from Horace and Virgil. 
 
 Horace, Book I, Satire 5, a humourous description 
 of the Author's journey from Rome to Brundu- 
 
 sium 297 
 
 Book I, Satire 9, the description of an 
 
 Impertinent. Adapted to the present times, 
 
 1759 306 
 
 The Salad. By Virgil 314 
 
 N 4. Translations from various Latin Poems of Vincent 
 Bourne, and a few Epigrams of Owen. 
 
 The Thracian 321 
 
 Reciprocal kindness the primary Law of Nature. . . 322 
 A Manual more ancient than the Art of Printing, 
 
 and not to be found in any Catalogue 326 
 
 An ^Enigma 33 1 
 
 Sparrows self-domesticated in Trinity College, 
 
 Cambridge 333 
 
 Familiarity dangerous 336 
 
 Invitation to the Redbreast 337 
 
 Strada's Nightingale 340 
 
 Ode on the Death of a Lady, who lived one hun- 
 dred years, and died on her birthday, 1728 341 
 
 The Cause won 346 
 
 The Silkworm 347 
 
 The innocent Thief 349 
 
 Denner's Old Woman 352 
 
 The Tears of a Painter 355 
 
 The Maze 357 
 
 No Sorrow peculiar to the Sufferer 358 
 
 The Snail 360 
 
 The Cantab 362 
 
 Epigrams, translated from the Latin of Owen. 
 
 On one Ignorant and Arrogant 364 
 
 Prudent Simplicity ib.
 
 xxxvi CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 To a Friend in Distress 365 
 
 The Progress of Knowledge ib. 
 
 Retaliation ib. 
 
 Sunset and Sunrise 366 
 
 N 5. Montes glaciales in Oceano Germanico natantes. . . 367 
 On the Ice Islands seen floating in the German 
 Ocean 370 
 
 N 8 6. Verses to the Memory of Dr. Lloyd 373 
 
 N 7- Translations from the Fables of Gay. 
 
 The Hare and many Friends 377 
 
 The Miser and Plutus 380 
 
 The Butterfly and the Snail 382 
 
 N* 8. The Connoisseur, N 1 19 383 
 
 N134 391 
 
 N 138 399 
 
 Motto on the King's Clock 406 
 
 Conclusion 407 
 
 Comparison between Milton and Cowper 408 
 
 YardleyOak. 415
 
 AN 
 
 INTRODUCTORY LETTER 
 
 TO THE 
 
 RIGHT HON. EARL COWPER. 
 
 Your family, my Lord, our country itself, and 
 the whole literary world, sustained so great a 
 loss in the death of that amiable man, and en- 
 chanting author, who forms the subject of these 
 volumes, as to inspire the friends of genius and 
 virtue with universal concern. It soon became 
 a general wish, that some authentic and co- 
 pious memorial of a character so highly inte- 
 resting should be produced with all becoming 
 despatch ; not only to render due honour to the 
 dead, but to alleviate the regret of a nation tak- 
 ing a just and liberal pride in the reputation of 
 
 VOL. I. b
 
 a poet, who had obtained and deserved her ap- 
 plause, her esteem, her affection. If this laud- 
 able wish was very sensibly felt by the public 
 at large, it glowed with peculiar eagerness in 
 the bosom of the few, who had been so for- 
 tunate as to enjoy an intimacy with Cowper, 
 in some unclouded periods of his life ; and who 
 knew, from such an intimacy, that a lively 
 sweetness, and sanctity of spirit, were as truly 
 the characteristics of his social enjoyments, as 
 they are allowed to constitute a principal charm 
 in his poetical productions. It has justly been 
 regarded as a signal blessing, to have possessed 
 the esteem and confidence of such a man ; and, 
 not long after his decease, one of his particular 
 friends presumed to suggest to an accomplished 
 lady, nearly related both to him and to your 
 Lordship, that she herself might be the bio- 
 grapher most worthy of the poet. The inti- 
 macy and correspondence, which she enjoyed 
 with him, both in their lively hours of youthful 
 friendship, and in the dark evening of his won- 
 derfully chequered life ; her cultivated and affec- 
 tionate mind, which led her to take peculiar
 
 delight and interest in the merit and reputa- 
 tion of his writings; and lastly, that generous 
 attachment to her afflicted relation, which in- 
 duced her to watch over his disordered health, 
 in a period of its most calamitous depression; 
 these circumstances united, seemed to render 
 it desirable that she should assume the office 
 of Cowper's biographer, having such advan- 
 tage for the perfect execution of that very de- 
 licate task, as perhaps no other memorialist 
 could possess in an equal degree. For the in- 
 terest of literature, and for the honour of many 
 poets, whose memories have suffered from some 
 biographers of a very different description, we 
 may wish that the extensive series of poetical 
 biography had been frequently enriched by the 
 memoirs of such remembrancers, as feel only 
 the influence of tenderness and truth. Some 
 poets, indeed, of recent times, have been happy 
 in this most desirable advantage. The Scottish 
 favorite of nature, the tender and impetuous 
 Burns, has found in Dr. Currie an ingenuous, 
 eloquent, affectionate biographer; and in a lady 
 also (whose memoir of her friend, the bard, is 
 
 b 2
 
 very properly annexed to his life) a zealous and 
 graceful advocate, singularly happy in vindi- 
 cating his character from invidious detraction. 
 We may observe, to the honour of Scotland, 
 that her national enthusiasm has for some years 
 been very laudably exerted in cherishing the 
 memory of her departed poets. But to return 
 to the lady, who gave rise to this remark. The 
 natural diffidence of her sex, uniting with ex- 
 treme delicacy of health, induced her (eager as 
 she is to promote the celebrity of her deceased 
 relation) to shrink from the idea of submitting 
 herself, as an author, to the formidable eye of 
 the public. Her knowledge of the very cordial 
 regard with which Cowper has honored me, as 
 one of his most confidential friends, led her to 
 request, that she might assign to me that ardu- 
 ous office, which she candidly confessed she had 
 not the resolution to assume. She confided to 
 my care such materials for the work in ques- 
 tion, as her affinity to the deceased had thrown 
 into her hands. In receiving a collection of 
 many private letters, and of several posthumous 
 little poems, in the well known characters of
 
 that beloved correspondent, at the sight of 
 whose hand I have often exulted, I felt the 
 blended emotions of melancholy regret, and of 
 awful pleasure! Yes: I was pleased that these 
 affecting papers were entrusted to my care, be- 
 cause some incidents incline me to believe, that, 
 if their revered author had been solicited to ap- 
 point a biographer for himself, he would have 
 assigned me this honorable task: yet honor- 
 able as I considered it, I was perfectly aware of 
 the difficulties and dangers attending it: one 
 danger indeed appeared to me of such a nature, 
 as to require perpetual caution, as I advanced : 
 I mean the danger of being led, in writing as 
 the biographer of my friend, to speak too fre- 
 quently of myself. To avoid the offensive fail- 
 ing of egotism, I had resolved at first to make 
 no inconsiderable sacrifice; and to suppress in 
 his letters every particle of praise bestowed upon 
 me. I soon found it impossible to do so without 
 injuring the tender and generous spirit of my 
 friend. I have therefore suffered many expres- 
 sions of his affectionate partiality toward me to 
 appear, at the hazard of being censured for in-
 
 ordinate vanity. To obviate such a censure, I 
 will only say, that I have endeavoured to exe- 
 cute what I regard as a mournful duty, as if I 
 were under the immediate and visible direction of 
 the most truly modest, and the most gracefully 
 virtuous mind, that I had ever the happiness of 
 knowing in the form of a manly friend. It is 
 certainly my wish, that these volumes may ob- 
 tain the entire approbation of the world ; but it 
 is much more my desire, and ambition, to render 
 them exactly such, as I think most likely to 
 gratify the conscious spirit of Cowper himself, 
 in a superior existence. The person, who re- 
 commended it to his female relation to continue 
 her exemplary regard to the poet by appearing 
 as his biographer, advised her to relate the parti- 
 culars of his life in the form of ietters addressed 
 to your Lordship. He cited on the occasion a 
 striking passage from the Memoirs of Gibbon, 
 in which that great historian pays a just, and a 
 splendid compliment to one of the early English 
 poets, who in the tenderness, and purity of his 
 heart, and in the vivid powers of description, 
 may be thought to resemble Cowper. The pas-
 
 sage alluded to is this: "The nobility' of the 
 " Spencers has been illustrated and enriched 
 " by the trophies of Marlborough, but I exhort 
 " them to consider the Fairy Queen as the most 
 " precious jewel of their coronet." If this lively 
 metaphor is just in every point of view, we may 
 regard The Task as a jewel of preeminent lustre 
 in the coronet belonging to the noble family of 
 Cowper. Under the influence of this idea, allow 
 me, my Lord, to address to you such Memoirs 
 of your admirable relation, as my own intimacy 
 with him, and the kindness of those, who knew 
 and loved him most truly, have enabled me to 
 compose! I will tell you, with perfect sincerity, 
 all my motives for addressing them to your 
 Lordship. First, I flatter myself it may be a 
 pleasing, and permit me to say, not an unuseful 
 occupation to an ingenuous young nobleman, to 
 trace the steps, by which a retired man, of the 
 most diffident modesty, whose private virtues 
 did honour to his name, raised himself to pecu- 
 liar celebrity. My second motive is, I own, of 
 a more selfish nature; for I am persuaded, that 
 in addressing my Work to you, I give the public
 
 a satisfactory pledge for the authenticity of my 
 materials. I will not pretend to say, that I hold 
 it in the power of any title or affinity, to reflect 
 an additional lustre on the memory of the de- 
 parted poet: for I think so highly of poetical 
 distinction, when that distinction is preemi- 
 nently obtained by genius, piety, and benevo- 
 lence, that all common honors appear to be 
 eclipsed by a splendour more forcible and ex- 
 tensive. Great poets, my Lord, and that I may 
 speak of them, as they deserve, let me say, in 
 the words of Horace, 
 
 Primum me illorum, dederlm quibus esse poetas, 
 Excerpam numero, 
 
 Great poets have generally united in their des- 
 tiny those extremes of good and evil, which 
 Homer, their immortal president, assigns to the 
 bard he describes; and which he exemplified 
 himself in his own person. Their lives have 
 been frequently chequered by the darkest shades 
 of calamity; but their personal infelicities are 
 nobly compensated by the prevalence of their 
 renown. To set this in the most striking point
 
 of view, allow me to compare poetical celebrity 
 with the fame acquired by the exertion of dif- 
 ferent mental powers in the highest department 
 of civil life. The Lord Chancellors of England 
 may be justly regarded among the personages of 
 the modern world, peculiarly exalted by intel- 
 lectual endowments : with two of these illustri- 
 ous characters, the poet, whose life I have en- 
 deavoured to delineate, was in some measure 
 connected ; being related to one, the immediate 
 ancestor of your Lordship, and being intimate 
 in early life, with a Chancellor of the present 
 reign, whose elevation to that dignity he has re- 
 corded in rhyme. Much respect is due to the 
 legal names of Cowper and of Thurlow. Know- 
 ledge, eloquence, and political importance, con- 
 spired to aggrandize the men, who added those 
 names to the list of English nobility : yet after 
 the lapse of a few centuries, they will shine only 
 like very distant constellations, merely visible 
 in the vast expanse of history. But at that 
 time, the poet, of whom I speak, will continue 
 to sparkle in the eyes of all men, like the ra- 
 diant star of the evening, perpetually hailed by
 
 10 
 
 the voice of gratitude, affection, and delight. 
 There is a principle of unperishable vitality (if 
 I may use such an expression) in the composi- 
 tions of Cowper; which must ensure to them in 
 future ages, what we have seen them so happily 
 acquire and maintain in the present; universal 
 admiration, and love. His poetry is to the heart, 
 and the fancy, what the moral essays of Bacon 
 are to the understanding, a never-cloying feast ; 
 
 " As if increase of appetite had grown 
 " By what it fed on" 
 
 Like them, " it comes home to the business and 
 bosom of every man." By possessing the rare 
 and double talent to familiarize and endear the 
 most awful subjects, and to dignify the most 
 familiar, the poet naturally becomes a favorite 
 with readers of every description: his works 
 must interest every nation under Heaven, where 
 his sentiments are understood, and where the 
 feelings of humanity prevail. Yet their author 
 is eminently an Englishman, in the noblest sense 
 of that honorable appellation : he loved the con- 
 stitution; he revered the religion of his coun-
 
 11 
 
 try : he was tenderly and generously alive to 
 her real interest and honor ; and perhaps, of her 
 many admirable poets, not one has touched her 
 foibles, and celebrated her perfections, with a 
 spirit so truly filial. But I perceive that I am 
 in danger of going far beyond my design in this 
 Introductory Letter, for it was my intention not 
 to enter into the merits of his character here, 
 but to inform you in what manner I wish to 
 make that character display itself to my readers, 
 as far as possible, in his own most impressive 
 language. Perhaps no man ever possessed the 
 powers of description in a higher degree, both 
 in verse and prose. By weaving into the tex- 
 ture of these memoirs an extensive selection of 
 his private letters, and several of his posthumous 
 poems, I trust that a faithful representation of 
 him has been formed, where the most striking 
 features will appear the work of his own inimi- 
 table hand. The result of the whole production 
 will, I am confident, establish one most satis- 
 factory truth, interesting to society in general, 
 and to your Lordship in particular. The truth 
 I mean, is expressed in the final verse of an epi-
 
 12 
 
 taph, which the hand of friendship inscribed to 
 your excellent relation : 
 
 " His virtues forni'd the magic of his song." 
 
 May the affectionate zeal, with which I have 
 endeavoured to render all the justice in my power 
 to his variety of merit, atone for whatever defi- 
 ciencies shall be found in this imperfect attempt; 
 and lead both your Lordship, and our Country, 
 to honor with some degree of approbation. 
 
 Your very faithful servant, 
 
 WILLIAM HAY LEV.
 
 DESULTORY REMARKS 
 
 LETTERS OF EMINENT PERSONS, 
 
 PARTICULARLY THOSE OF 
 
 POPE AND COWPER. 
 
 " Epistolae vitam ipsam hom'mis repraesentant." 
 
 EBASMUS
 
 DESULTORY REMARKS. 
 
 A\ 
 
 J. he popular favor shown to the Life of Cowper 
 since its first appearance, may be justly ascribed 
 to that irresistible attraction, which readers of 
 every class have felt and acknowledged, in pe- 
 rusing the letters of the departed poet. They 
 breathe, like his verse, such a pure spirit of mo- 
 rality and religion; they are so enlivened by a 
 simple and graceful display of the benevolent 
 affections; that our country seems to have re- 
 ceived them, as a meritorious mother receives a 
 legacy of honor from a dear distinguished son, 
 when it appears to confirm, and to justify, all 
 the tenderness, and all the energy, of her pa- 
 rental feelings. 
 
 The excellence of Cowper's letters has a vi- 
 sible proportion to the warmth and purity of his 
 affection toward his correspondents ; and as his 
 heart was truly attached, both to his young 
 friend Mr. Unwin, and to his more venerable 
 associate Mr. Newton, his letters to these gen- 
 tlemen are interesting in a very high degree.
 
 16 
 
 In writing to Mr. Newton on a subject of great 
 nicety, the solicited communication of his new, 
 and then unpublished poem the Task, the poet 
 gives every thing that is due to the delicacy of 
 friendship, and maintains at the same time the 
 dignity and independence of his own powerful 
 and upright mind. 
 
 The following remarks were first printed as 
 an introduction to a supplemental volume of his 
 letters, most of which were addressed to these 
 two confidential friends of the poet. Several 
 were written at the time when he was employed 
 on his greatest performance; and such letters 
 were the more welcome, as the former corres- 
 pondence afforded very few, that relate to that 
 interesting period. In reprinting the Life, I 
 have endeavoured to place the whole series of 
 Letters in their proper chronological order, ex- 
 cept in a few instances, where some occasional mo- 
 tives seemed to require a different arrangement. 
 
 Regarding the heart of Cowper, as one of 
 the most pure and friendly, that Heaven ever 
 bestowed upon a mortal; and knowing that it 
 was at all times his custom, to display his own 
 heart to his confidential correspondents, not 
 only with the utmost frankness and fidelity, but 
 with an enchanting talent peculiar to himself; 
 it has been my constant endeavour, to illus- 
 trate the different periods of his life, by such
 
 17 
 
 documents, as I was able to discover in the cus- 
 tody of his surviving friends. I had often heard 
 him mention his early and renewed intimacy 
 with an accomplished and amiable scholar, once 
 numbered among his favorite school-fellows at 
 Westminster, the late Rev. Walter Bagot, of 
 Blithfield, in Staffordshire. The kindness of a 
 young and zealous coadjutor afforded me a safe 
 and easy communication with that gentleman. 
 I had soon the gratification of perceiving, that 
 he retained, in advanced life, all the cheerful 
 active good-nature, and the classical erudition, 
 which endeared him to Cowper in his juvenile 
 days. He expressed a most obliging readiness 
 to assist me in promoting the renown of that 
 excellent writer, whose memory, both as a poet 
 and a friend, we equally revered; and he most 
 kindly submitted to my inspection and use the 
 collected manuscripts of Cowper, that he had 
 preserved from their earliest intercourse. After 
 a pleasant juvenile letter, dated November \7-9, 
 their correspondence was suspended for many 
 years. But it was renewed in 1785, and conti- 
 nued with reciprocal kindness, till the depres- 
 sion of Cowper's health precluded him from that 
 affectionate intercourse with distant friends, in 
 which he delighted and excelled. 
 
 I made such a selection from the whole cor- 
 respondence, as my sentiments of regard, both 
 vol. i. c
 
 18 
 
 to the living and the dead, suggested. Those 
 who feel the charm of Cowper's epistolary lan- 
 guage, had the gratification of finding several 
 new letters, both serious and sportive. There 
 is a passage in one of these, in which the author 
 displays his moralizing disposition, with pecu- 
 liar felicity. Perhaps that rich and ample field 
 of morality, his whole collected works, affords 
 not any remark more truly original and sublime. 
 The public will make all due allowance for my 
 partiality to the letters of my friend; which I 
 am ever ready to allow, and in which (I am in- 
 clined to believe) the majority of readers will 
 sympathise with me, in proportion as they com- 
 pare him with the most eminent letter-writers 
 of the ancient and modern world ; a comparison, 
 which these desultory remarks were designed to 
 promote. I have been fortunately enabled to 
 select and preserve such an extensive collection 
 of Cowper's letters, as may give my reader a 
 great degree of intimacy with this excellent 
 personage. Yet many (I am persuaded) have 
 perished, that were perfectly worthy of the 
 press. A correspondence once existed between 
 Cowper and his early friend Mr. Rowley, a gen- 
 tleman who died, not long ago, in Ireland. His 
 Letters to Cowper were French. The poet re- 
 plied in Latin, a language of which he was par- 
 ticularly fond, and which he wrote with great
 
 19 
 
 facility and elegance. These letters have been 
 all destroyed. But it may gratify the relations 
 and friends of Mr. Rowley, to observe, that 
 Cowper has spoken of him repeatedly, to other 
 correspondents, in terms of the most cordial 
 esteem. The praise of Cowper is so singularly 
 valuable, from the reserve, and the purity of his 
 disposition, that it would almost seem a cruel 
 injury to suppress a particle of it, when delibe- 
 rately, or even cursorily, bestowed. His sensi- 
 bility was of a generous kind; his perception of 
 excellence was exquisite; and his delight in 
 praising it most liberal, even when he was a 
 stranger to the person he praised. Witness the 
 affectionate warmth and eloquence, with which 
 he describes the writings of Beattie ! Those let- 
 ters of Cowper will not be esteemed the least 
 interesting, in which he has expressed his cri- 
 tical opinions on several of his most celebrated 
 contemporaries. Some readers will probably 
 think, that his own attachment to the graces of 
 simplicity in composition has rendered him se- 
 vere, to excess, in criticising the style of two 
 eminent historians, Robertson and Gibbon. 
 
 It is pleasing, however, to discover the ge- 
 nuine sentiments, that literary characters, of 
 high distinction, entertained of other successful 
 candidates for fame, who lived in their days. 
 Cowper, in criticising the popular authors of his 
 c 2
 
 20 
 
 own nation, cannot fail to interest an English 
 reader. Indeed the letters of the poet have 
 been honored with the notice, and the applause, 
 of foreigners. A polite and liberal scholar of 
 France, deeply versed in our literature, has con- 
 fessed, that he never thought the writers of this 
 country equal to those of his own, in all the ex- 
 cellencies of epistolary composition, till he read 
 the letters of Cowper. 
 
 Gratified, as I am, by a compliment so ho- 
 norable to my departed friend, I am too zealous 
 an advocate for the literary glory of our coun- 
 try, to admit, that the letter writers of England 
 are collectively inferior in merit to those of any 
 nation in the modern world. 
 
 I am aware, that some elegant and respect- 
 able critics of our island have made this humi- 
 liating concession in favour of France. Mel- 
 moth, and Warton, have both expressed their 
 regret, that we have not equalled our neigh- 
 bours, the French, in this branch of literature: 
 but I apprehend, a reference to a few remark- 
 able, and well known English letters, will be 
 sufficient to vindicate our national honor, in 
 this article of taste and refinement. 
 
 If we turn to an early season of our episto- 
 lary language, we may observe, that the letter 
 of Sir Philip Sidney to his sister Lady Pembroke, 
 prefixed, as a dedication, to his Arcadia, is dis-
 
 21 
 
 tinguished by tender elegance and graceful af- 
 fection. The letters of Essex, the idol and the 
 victim of the imperious and wretched Elizabeth, 
 have been deservedly celebrated for their manly 
 eloquence. At a period still more early, the let- 
 ter of Ann Boleyn to Henry the Eighth, so justly 
 recommended to public admiration by Addison 
 in the Spectator, displays all the endearing dig- 
 nity of insulted virtue, and impassioned elo- 
 quence. I know not any letter in the female 
 writers of France, distinguished as they are by 
 their epistolary talents, that can be fairly pre- 
 ferred to the pathetic composition of this lovely 
 martyr. The French, indeed, have one cele- 
 brated writer of letters, the Marchioness de 
 Sevign6, to wfaom we can hardly produce any 
 individual as an exact parallel. But the letters 
 of Lady Russel (not to mention those of Queen 
 Mary to King William) may be cited, as equal- 
 ling Madame Sevigne's in tenderness of heart; 
 and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu is assuredly 
 a powerful rival to the Marchioness, in a}l the 
 charms of easy, elegant language, and in viva- 
 city of description. But in the highest charm 
 of epistolary writing, that of gracefully display- 
 ing, without disguise or reserve, a most amiable 
 character; and exciting, by that display, a ten- 
 der and lively affection in the reader; in this 
 epistolary excellence, Lady Mary is indeed as
 
 22 
 
 unequal to Madame Sevign, as a thistle is in- 
 ferior to a rose. 
 
 Maternal tenderness is the most lovely, the 
 most useful and the sublimest quality, that God 
 has given to mortals. It was the great charac- 
 teristic of Madame Sevigne, and shows itself so 
 repeatedly in her letters, that it may sometimes 
 prove wearisome to readers not perfectly pre- 
 pared to sympathize in her predominant feel- 
 ings : but I question, if any tender parent ever 
 felt fatigued, in perusing even the excesses of 
 her maternal solicitude. She has herself ex- 
 plained the powerful charm of her own letters, 
 by describing, in the following words, the let- 
 ters of her daughter : 
 
 " Je cherche quelquefois ou vous pouvez 
 trouver si pr^cisement tout ce qu'il faut penser 
 et dire; c'est en verity, dans votre coeur; c'est 
 lui, qui ne manque jamais ; et quoique vous ayez 
 voulu dire autrefois a la louange de l'esprit, qui 
 veut contrefaire le coeur, l'esprit manque, il se 
 trompe, il bronche a tout moment; ses allures 
 ne sont point gales, et les gens clairs par le 
 coeur n'y sauroient etre tromp^s. Aimons done, 
 ma fille, ce qui vient si naturellement de ce 
 lieu." 
 
 The enchanting mother of Madame de Grig- 
 nan had the tenderest of hearts : the mother of 
 the eccentric traveller Wortley Montagu seems
 
 23 
 
 to have had a heart of a very different descrip- 
 tion, when we consider the manner in which 
 she alludes to the indiscretions of her son, and 
 the legacy of a guinea which she bequeathed 
 to him by her will. The lady, in truth, must 
 have been deplorably deficient in the compas- 
 sionate virtues of her sex, who could pour forth 
 her spleen, with such unmerciful and disgusting 
 malevolence, on the personal deformity of Pope. 
 It has been suggested indeed, that the satirical 
 poet was the aggressor, and provoked the indig- 
 nation of the lady. The respectable writer, who 
 has recently prefixed memoirs of this lady to an 
 elegant edition of her works, has spoken of her 
 with that natural partiality, which an editor 
 is allowed to feel for an author, whom he has 
 long contemplated with pleasure; and especially, 
 when that author appears entitled to peculiar re- 
 gard, as a lady of distinction. In noticing the 
 quarrel between her ladyship and Pope, he en- 
 deavours to throw the odium of that quarrel 
 entirely on the poet; accusing him of mean- 
 ness, and of absolute falsehood, in the declara- 
 tion, by which he had positively asserted, that 
 he was not the aggressor. There are no 
 proofs of his falsehood : on the contrary, there 
 is a strong presumptive proof, that his declara- 
 tion was perfectly sincere ; as he had before em- 
 powered his friend Lord Peterborough to give
 
 24 
 
 the offended lady, in private, a similar assurance. 
 Lord Peterborough was, of all men then living, 
 the last person, whom Pope, or any of his friends, 
 could think of engaging 
 
 " To lend a lie the confidence of truth." 
 
 The letter of Lord Peterborough, in which 
 he relates to Lady Mary his conversation with 
 Pope on this affair, concludes with the follow- 
 ing benevolent expressions : " I hope this assu- 
 rance will prevent your further mistakes, and 
 any consequences upon so odd a subject." 
 
 Such was the moral and religious character 
 of Pope, that his serious protestation ought to 
 be candidly received as decisive evidence, un- 
 less some very strong and unquestionable proof 
 could be alleged against it; and the following 
 words in his letter to Lord Hervey form a pro- 
 testation as clear and unequivocal as language 
 can express : 
 
 " In regard to the Right Honorable Lady, 
 your Lordship's friend, I was far from designing 
 a person of her condition by a name so deroga- 
 tory to her as that of Sappho, a name prostituted 
 to every infamous creature, that ever wrote verse 
 or novels. I protest I never applied that name 
 to her, in any verse of mine, public or private, 
 and (I firmly believe) not in any letter or con- 
 versation."
 
 25 
 
 The advocate of Lady Mary endeavours to 
 prove the falsity of Pope in this protestation, 
 by adducing passages from his works, in which 
 the name of Sappho must evidently belong to 
 the lady in question : but the date of those 
 works, in their first publication, is sufficient to 
 vindicate the veracity of the author. He might 
 apply the name of Sappho to Lady Mary, after 
 she had, in the blindness of anger, taken the 
 name to herself, without lessening the credit 
 due to his earlier protestation. It should also 
 be remembered, that the person, to whom he 
 first applied the name of Sappho, was the unfor- 
 tunate woman, who was tempted by necessity, 
 to print the letters of the poet to his early friend 
 Mr. Cromwell; and Pope called her Sappho in 
 compliment to his friend, who had given her the 
 title. 
 
 It must however be admitted, that the offen- 
 sive couplet, which so wonderfully excited the 
 wrath of Lady Mary, is a disgrace to the poet, 
 from the insufferable indelicacy of its language. 
 But that he asserted an absolute falsehood, con- 
 cerning his own intention when he wrote it, no- 
 thing but irresistible evidence should induce the 
 friends of literature to believe. Pope is pecu- 
 liarly unfortunate in his two eminent biogra- 
 phers, Johnson and Warton; because each of 
 them had felt the influence of an accidental and
 
 26 
 
 personal prejudice against him ; which may ac- 
 count for their failing to vindicate his probity 
 with the zeal of truth and affection. 
 
 Warton considers him as the aggressor, in 
 his quarrel with Lady Mary; yet what is here 
 said on that subject will induce, I trust, every 
 candid reader, to credit the express, and oppo- 
 site, assertion of the poet. 
 
 Johnson, in noticing Pope's vindication of 
 himself, in his letter to Lord Hervey, says, that 
 " to a cool reader of the present time it exhibits 
 nothing but tedious malignity." The critic's 
 censure on this remarkable composition is a 
 striking proof of his own malevolent prejudice 
 against Pope. A friend to the poet would have 
 justly observed, that his letter to Lord Hervey 
 is one of the most acute, the most highly po- 
 lished, and triumphant invectives, that resent- 
 ment ever drew from a man of genius and vir- 
 tue, provoked to the utmost by the grossest in- 
 dignity. It is in miniature, what the oration of 
 Demosthenes concerning the crown appears on 
 a larger scale; a personal defence, animated by 
 conscious integrity, and flaming with proud con- 
 tempt of an adversary, who was not destitute of 
 abilities, but was overwhelmed in his furious at- 
 tack upon a man of superior powers, and was 
 lacerated by the shafts of eloquence, sharpened 
 by indignation. The triumph of Pope was in-
 
 27 
 
 deed as complete as language could render it: 
 But triumphs of this nature deserve perhaps to 
 be considered rather as subjects of regret, than 
 as sources of real glory. If the most eminent 
 departed authors could revisit the human scene, 
 after residing in a purer sphere, and revise their 
 own productions, they would probably annihi- 
 late all the virulent invectives, which the in- 
 temperance of human passions has so abundantly 
 produced. 
 
 Among the pitiable infelicities in the frame 
 of Pope, we may justly reckon the irritability of 
 his temper; and it was an additional misfortune 
 to him, that some of his friends, whom he most 
 esteemed, excited him to such an exercise of 
 his talents, as had a tendency to increase his 
 constitutional infirmity. Atterbury, who, after 
 perusing his character of Addison, exhorted him 
 to persevere in the thorny path of satire, would 
 have better consulted both the happiness and 
 the renown of his friend, had he endeavoured to 
 lead his ductile spirit into a subiimer sphere of 
 literary ambition. 
 
 But to speak of Pope as a writer of letters 
 In this character, as in that of a poet, he lias had 
 the ill-fortune to suffer by hasty and indiscri- 
 minate censure. It has been a fashion to say, 
 the letters of Pope are stiff, and affected. Even 
 Cowper has spoken of them in such terms of 
 general condemnation, as, I am confident, his .
 
 28 
 
 candid spirit would have corrected, had he been 
 led to reflect and expatiate on the subject; for 
 in truth, though many letters of Pope have the 
 disgusting defects of formality and affectation, 
 there are several, in which he makes a near ap- 
 proach to that excellence, that delightful assem- 
 blage of ease, freedom, and dignity, which en- 
 chants the reader in the epistolary language ot 
 my departed friend. The Letters of Pope are 
 valuable in many points of view. They exhibit 
 extraordinary specimens of mental power, and 
 a contemplative spirit, in very early youth. 
 They show the progress of a tender, powerful, 
 and irritable mind, in its acquaintance with po- 
 lished life, the delights it enjoyed, the vexations 
 it endured, the infirmities it contracted, and the 
 virtues it exerted, in a long career of memorable 
 enmities, and of friendships more worthy of un- 
 fading remembrance. He has passed himself so 
 just and manly a censure on his juvenile affec- 
 tation of epistolary wit, that on this point he is 
 entitled to mercy from the severest of critics. 
 It is not so easy to excuse him for the excess of 
 his flattery. Yet on this article a friendly ad- 
 mirer of the author may find something to allege 
 in his behalf. Among the most offensive of his 
 letters, we may reckon those to Lady Mary pe- 
 culiarly disgusting, from their very gross, and 
 very awkward adulation. But even this may be
 
 29 
 
 pardonable, if we allow, what appears very pro- 
 bable, that Pope was so fascinated by the beauty 
 and attractions of this accomplished lady, that 
 he was absolutely in love with her, though not 
 conscious of his passion. For the credit of both, 
 it may be wished, that ali traces of their inti- 
 macy, and of their quarrel, could be utterly for- 
 gotten; and the more so, because, with all their 
 imperfections, each has displayed such a high 
 degree of literary excellence, that the happier 
 writings of both must be admired, as long as the 
 language of England exists. 
 
 Lady Mary deserves to live in the grateful 
 remembrance of her country, as the first English 
 teacher and patroness of inoculation. She has 
 probably rescued many thousand fair faces from 
 the ravages of a deforming distemper. She 
 would indeed have been still more entitled to 
 perpetual benediction, had she been able to ac- 
 complish as much (by example or precept) to- 
 ward diminishing the barbarous influence of 
 those mental distempers, envy, hatred, and ma- 
 lice: but instead of banishing them from her 
 own spirit, she has exhibited, in writing against 
 Pope, a portentous offspring of their execrable 
 power. It would be a signal and a happy com- 
 pliment to the literary reputation of this memo- 
 rable lady, if her noble descendants would di- 
 rect, that the bitter verses, to which I allude ?
 
 30 
 
 should be rejected from the future editions of 
 her works. Her outrageous acrimony would 
 then be gradually forgotten, as all who justly 
 regard her memory must wish it to be. The 
 verses in question may be rejected with the 
 greater propriety, as they are said to have been 
 partly composed by her associate, Lord Hervey. 
 Let the peer and the poet (Hervey and Pope) 
 show themselves alternately mangling each other, 
 with equal virulence, though with different abi- 
 lities: but let not a lady, so truly admirable in 
 many points of view, be exhibited to all gene- 
 rations, as brandishing the scalping-knife of sa- 
 tirical malignity ! Her more temperate writings 
 exhibit infinitely too much of that contemp- 
 tuous and malevolent spirit, which she was apt 
 to display, against several illustrious authors of 
 her own time a failing, for which she has been 
 censured with great justice and eloquence by a 
 female writer of the present age, who may be 
 regarded as greatly superior to Lady Mary, not 
 only in the graceful virtues most suited to her 
 sex, but in her poetical talents. The candid, 
 elegant, and animated biographer of Richardson 
 (Mrs. Barbauld) has admirably vindicated the 
 mental dignity of that enchanting moralist 
 against the sarcastic detraction of Lady Mary. 
 
 But let us return to the Letters of Pope. If 
 they have sunk in the estimation of the Public,
 
 SI 
 
 there certainly was a time, when they contri- 
 buted not a little to his renown. Even his un- 
 friendly biographer, Johnson, says on this sub- 
 ject " Pope's private correspondence, thus 
 " promulgated, filled the nation with praises of 
 " his candour, tenderness, and benevolence, the 
 " purity of his purposes, and the fidelity of his 
 " friendship." 
 
 This is probably the truth, though the Doctor 
 seems to contradict himself in the course of a 
 few pages, and says, with remarkable incon- 
 sistency, in speaking of the Letters published 
 by Pope " The book never became much the 
 " subject of conversation. Some read it, as a 
 " contemporary history; and some perhaps, as 
 " a model of epistolary language. But those 
 " who read it, did not talk of it. Not much 
 " therefore was added by it to fame, or envy." 
 
 If the surreptitious edition of Pope's Letters 
 produced such a striking effect in the poet's fa- 
 vor, as the Doctor at first asserted, it is very 
 improbable, that Pope's authentic publication of 
 his own correspondence should be so little re- 
 garded. There is also great improbability in 
 the Doctor's conjecture, that Pope himself, with 
 a very mean artifice, contrived the first clandes- 
 tine appearance of his own letters. Had he 
 previously wished to print them, he might ha e 
 pleaded the precedent of Howel's Letters, a
 
 32 
 
 popular book of our own country, and of merit 
 sufficient to attract the notice and applause of 
 foreigners; for the learned Morhof, in his His* 
 tory of Literature, expresses a wish, that Howel's 
 Letters may be translated into Latin or Ger- 
 man. If Pope wished for higher authority 
 among the poets of other nations, he might have 
 found such an authority in the elder Tasso, who 
 in writing to his friend, Claudio Tolomei, praises 
 him with enthusiastic admiration, for having 
 published one of the earliest collection of fami- 
 liar letters in the Italian language, which the 
 poet considers as worthy of being regarded as 
 models; and in friendly emulation of which he 
 avows a design of imparting to the world two 
 books of his own private letters. 
 
 It is but just however to observe, on the 
 other side, that Erasmus, a favorite author in the 
 estimation of Pope, has said in one of his Let- 
 ters, that he would by no means advise any 
 writer to publish his own Letters in his life 
 time : " Nulli velim autor esse, ut ipse vivus 
 edat." The mild Erasmus confesses he wanted 
 courage himself, for such a display of his ta- 
 lents; and declares, he wondered that St. Ber- 
 nard not only published Letters of his own, but 
 Letters, in which he had not scrupled to stig- 
 matize the names of many. 
 
 Let us revert to the Letters of Pope.
 
 33 
 
 " His epistolary excellence (says Johnson) had 
 an open field; he had no English rival living or 
 dead." The biographer, before he made this re- 
 mark, enumerated a few English writers of let- 
 ters, who had preceded Pope ; but he forgot Sir 
 William Temple, whose celebrated letter to Lady 
 Essex, on the death of her daughter, is a mas- 
 terpiece of tender reproof, and friendly admo- 
 nition, against the indulgence of intemperate 
 sorrow; a letter admirable for its eloquence, and 
 worthy of perpetual commendation, as medi- 
 cinal to every suffering parent, whom tender- 
 ness of heart may expose to the pitiable excesses 
 of natural affliction. 
 
 If the English are inferior to other nations 
 of the modern world, in the multitude of col- 
 lected letters, we may certainly produce single 
 examples of excellence, not surpassed by fo- 
 reigners, in letters of diversified description. 
 
 In a consolatory letter, Sir William Temple 
 has no rival to apprehend: in a letter of manly 
 application to the mercy of a tyrant, (perhaps 
 the kind of letter, which it may be most diffi- 
 cult to write simply and gracefully!) the poet 
 Cleveland, addressing Oliver Cromwell, appears 
 entitled to a similar encomium: and for a letter 
 of laconic dignity, we may produce, without a 
 fear of seeing her surpassed, the " high born, 
 
 VOL. I D
 
 34 
 
 and high spirited Anne, Countess of Dorset, 
 Pembroke, and Montgomery." 
 
 Lord Bacon has expressed his very high 
 esteem of epistolary writing, in the following 
 terms: " Letters, such as are written from 
 wise men, are, of all the words of men, in my 
 judgment, the best." Yet this wonderful man 
 is himself very far from appearing to such ad- 
 vantage in his letters, as in his Moral Essays 
 the latter contain the pure essence of his pow- 
 erful mind, the former are debased by the dregs 
 of it. His Essays are an exquisite production 
 of knowledge, wisdom, and piety his letters, a 
 coarse tissue of artifice, adulation and servility. 
 
 In a letter to Mr. (afterwards Sir John) Da- 
 vies, who was gone to compliment James the 
 First, on his accession to the throne of England, 
 Bacon says " I commend myself to your love, 
 " and the well-using my name in imprinting 
 " a good conceit and opinion of me, chiefly in 
 " the King so desiring you to be good to con- 
 " cealed poets, I continue your assured friend." 
 
 These remarkable words seem to imply, that 
 Bacon wished Davies to represent him to the 
 King, as privately devoted to poetry ; and so he 
 sometimes was. If he had this intention, it 
 proves that he very early understood the vari- 
 ous modes of obtaining favor with the new mo-
 
 35 
 
 narch; for when James saw Davies, he asked if 
 he was Nosce teipsum, alluding to the title of his 
 celebrated poem, and being informed that his 
 new attendant was indeed the author of that 
 admirable work, he gave him expectations of fu- 
 ture promotion, which he soon fulfilled. There 
 is a letter of Bacon to James, on being created 
 Viscount St. Alban's, which enumerates the va- 
 rious favors he had received from that sove- 
 reign; but instead of displaying the genuine 
 eloquence of manly gratitude, it contains a very 
 poor conceit. Even in writing to the King's 
 daughter, the Queen of Bohemia, on the occa- 
 sion of presenting to her his History of Henry 
 the Seventh, Bacon is far from producing a 
 graceful letter. But it is painful to dwell on 
 the imperfections of so great a genius let us 
 return to the moral poet, who described him 
 truly and energetically, in a single verse. 
 
 One of the most interesting and manly let- 
 ters of the collection addressed to Pope is the 
 last of Arbuthnot's, containing the dying advice 
 of that genuine, accomplished friend, to the too 
 irritable poet. Pope, in his reply, assigns his 
 reasons for not adhering exactly to admonition, 
 of which he acknowledges the kindness: but, 
 as Warton has very justly observed on the occa- 
 sion, his reasons are not so solid as the admoni- 
 tion; and indeed the poet's letter is by no means 
 
 d 2
 
 36 
 
 so gracefully written, as that of the friendly 
 physician, a man equally distinguished by the 
 moral gayety of his life, and by his serene pre- 
 paration for death a man so happily free from 
 all flagrant misconduct, that his greatest fault 
 seems to have been an inattention to the due 
 preservation of his own admirable writings ; for 
 some of them, it is said, he suffered his children 
 to destroy, in the shape of playthings. 
 
 Of Pope's letters taken altogether, it may be 
 justly asserted, that they tend to confirm that 
 brief but honorable eulogy, which Bolingbroke, 
 in a season of awful veracity, pathetically pro- 
 nounced over his expiring friend : " O great 
 " God! what is man! i never knew a person, 
 " that had so tender a heart for his particular 
 " friends, or a warmer benevolence for all man- 
 kind !" 
 
 Perhaps, the most admirable of Pope's let- 
 ters is his farewell to Atterbury : it displays both 
 the tenderness, and the dignity of true friend- 
 ship ; for the writer was perfectly sincere in his 
 enthusiastic attachment both to Atterbury and 
 to Bolingbroke; two extraordinary men, whose 
 social accomplishments were so powerfully bril- 
 liant, that they seem to have rendered the moral 
 and penetrating poet absolutely blind to that 
 pestilent ambition, which spotted the character 
 both of the statesman and of the prelate.
 
 37 
 
 Johnson speaks candidly of Pope, in saying, 
 " he is seen in the collection of his Letters, as 
 connected with the other contemporary wits; 
 and certainly suffers no disgrace in the compa- 
 rison." This is undoubtedly true, in the impor- 
 tant articles of strong sense, and lively fancy; 
 but he frequently appears inferior to his cor- 
 respondents in the lighter graces of epistolary 
 language; particularly, inferior to Bolingbroke, 
 whose style is remarkable for the happiest union 
 of ease, vivacity, and vigour. 
 
 The letters of Bolingbroke, lately printed 
 (in Mr. Coxe's elaborate and candid Life of Sir 
 Robert Walpole) from the Egremont Papers, are 
 admirably written ; and I may assist some future 
 biographer of Bolingbroke, by observing, that 
 the private collection, from which the letters I 
 speak of were selected, contains one very me- 
 morable letter, though properly omitted by the 
 historian of Walpole, as not connected with his 
 design : it is a letter of great pathos and elo- 
 quence, dated Argeville, July 7, 1740, and ad- 
 dressed to the Son of Sir William Wyndham, on 
 the death of his father; a letter highly honora- 
 ble to the writer, in the character of a friend ! 
 
 Bolingbroke and Swift have both spoken of 
 the most eminent letter-writers, in their corres- 
 pondence with Pope; let us observe how each
 
 38 
 
 expresses himself on the talent, in which they 
 both excelled. 
 
 " I believe," says Swift to Pope (October 21, 
 1 735), " my letters have escaped being publish- 
 " ed, because I writ nothing but nature, and 
 " friendship, and particular incidents, which 
 " could make no figure in writing: I have ob- 
 " served, that not only Voiture, but likewise 
 " Tully, and Pliny, writ their letters for the 
 " public view, more than for the sake of their 
 " correspondents; and I am glad of it, on ac- 
 " count of the entertainment they have given 
 " me." 
 
 " I seek no epistolary fame," says Boling- 
 broke, in the postscript of an earlier letter from 
 Pope to Swift (April 14, 1730), " but am a good 
 " deal pleased, to think, that it will be known 
 " hereafter, that you and I lived in the most 
 " friendly intimacy together. Pliny writ his 
 " letters for the public ; so did Seneca, so did 
 " Balzac, Voiture, &c. Tully did not; and there- 
 " fore these give us more pleasure, than any 
 " which have come doMTi to us from antiquity. 
 " When we read them, we pry into a secret, 
 " which was intended to be kept from us that 
 " is a pleasure we see Cato, and Brutus, and 
 w Pompcy, and others, such as they really were ; 
 " and not such, as the gaping multitude of their
 
 39 
 
 " own age took them to be ; or as historians and 
 " poets have represented them to ours; that is 
 " another pleasure. I remember to have seen a 
 **. procession at Aix-la-Chapelle, wherein an image 
 " of Charlemagne is carried on the shoulders of 
 " a man who is hid by the long robe of the im- 
 " perial saint; follow him into the .vestry, you 
 " see the bearer slip from under the robe, and 
 " the gigantic figure dwindles into an image of 
 " the ordinary size, and is set by among other 
 " lumber." 
 
 The noble author has very happily illustrated 
 his just idea concerning the ostentatious display 
 of public characters imperfectly known ; but 
 the opposite intentions, which he ascribes to 
 Cicero and to Pliny, concerning their Letters, 
 were not, I apprehend, exactly the intentions of 
 the two illustrious Romans, whose names have 
 derived so much lustre from their epistolary ta- 
 lents. All the letters of Cicero were certainly 
 not intended for the eye of the public, but many 
 most probably were so. The great orator had 
 so fervent a passion for fame, that he was eager 
 to spread every sail, by which a breath of glory 
 could be caught. 
 
 The more succinct, but less powerful Pliny, 
 very candidly confesses a similar passion. He 
 takes a pride in the elegance of his Letters: 
 " Habeant nostrae quoque liter aliquid non hu-
 
 40 
 
 mile, nee sordidum, nee privatis rebus inclu- 
 sum." Yet Pliny seems not to have intended, 
 that the world should see such of his letters, as 
 relate only to the little circumstances of his pri- 
 vate and domestic life. He is a gainer, how- 
 ever, by the perfect knowledge of his character, 
 which these letters afford ; for, in various points 
 of view, he appears interesting and amiable. 
 
 Montaigne is uncommonly severe, in describ- 
 ing the Letters of Cicero and Pliny as proofs of 
 their inordinate vanity ; but if that pleasant es- 
 sayist should excite a frown by the severity of 
 his remarks on these favorite authors, he may 
 lead his reader to smile again, at the honest va- 
 nity he displays himself, while he is censuring 
 the vanity of the two Roman Consuls ; since, in 
 the same chapter, he commends his own talents 
 for epistolary composition. 
 
 It may be regretted, that in the rich mass of 
 ancient Grecian literature we find no collections 
 of familiar letters, to be compared with those of 
 Cicero and Pliny. Indeed there are hardly any 
 written by men of eminence, and entitled to the 
 name of familiar letters, if we except a few of 
 iEschines, the orator; who seems, in his epis- 
 tolary talent, to have been the Bolingbroke of 
 Athens. In one of his letters, he relates, with 
 vivacity, a ludicrous and licentious adventure of 
 a young fellow-traveller, with whom he visited
 
 41 
 
 the plain of Troy. As it seems to have been the 
 intention of jEschines, in these travels, to com- 
 pare the scenery around him with the descrip- 
 tions of it exhibited by Homer, it may be wished, 
 that this eloquent Athenian (whose command of 
 language was in some points perhaps superior to 
 that of his triumphant rival Demosthenes) had 
 made his intended comparison the subject of an- 
 other letter. 
 
 Although the letters of philosophers and rhe- 
 toricians to princes are scarcely t*> be classed 
 with such epistolary composition, as arises from 
 familiarity and friendship, I am tempted to no- 
 tice two remarkable letters, included in the works 
 of Plato and Isocrates. The first may be fairly 
 considered as a private letter, since the philo- 
 sopher entreats his correspondent, the younger 
 Dionysius, to read it repeatedly, and then to 
 burn it. In truth, he had abundant reason for 
 such a request ; as the letter contains a singular 
 confession, that this admired instructor had ne- 
 ver published his own genuine sentiments on 
 some abstruse points of philosophy, but con- 
 tented himself with delivering the opinions of 
 his master. Vide Platonis vol. xi, p. 72, edit. 
 Biponti. 
 
 The letter of Isocrates, to which I have al- 
 luded, is addressed to Alexander of Macedon, 
 during the life of his father, Philip. It is a brief, 
 benevolent, and graceful compliment, from an
 
 42 
 
 illustrious veteran of literature, to a highly pro- 
 mising youth. Vide Isocratis vol. i, p. 454, 
 edit. Auger. 
 
 When we consider the passion for news which 
 animated the Greeks, and the extreme vivacity 
 of their character, it seems rather surprising, 
 that in the remains of antiquity we find such a 
 small number of early Greek epistles; and so 
 little said by their rhetoricians, concerning the 
 most admired of their epistolary writers. Some 
 information on this subject may however be 
 gleaned from the treatise on elocution, that 
 bears the name of Demetrius Phalereus, from 
 the collections of Stobaeus, and the Bibliotheca 
 of Photius. 
 
 The learned Abb6 Barthelemy, who, in his 
 elaborate and masterly work of many years, Le 
 Voyage du jeune Anarcharsis, describes the li- 
 brary of an Athenian, does not represent it (if I 
 remember right) as containing any collection of 
 letters. Yet probably the libraries of Athens, 
 at that period, were not destitute of such an 
 amusing and instructive branch of literature. 
 The first collector of letters, if we may rely on 
 the authority of Clemens Alexandrinus and of 
 Tatian, was a Persian princess, who bore the 
 name of Atossa; for the Greek expression used 
 by these authors seems rather to mean the form- 
 ing a collection of letters, than the teaching 
 how letters should be written, as some of their
 
 43 
 
 interpreters have strangely supposed. Who this 
 interesting Atossa really was, although she is 
 called by Bentley the mother of Xerxes, it 
 would not perhaps be easy to ascertain; as the 
 name belonged to several Asiatic princesses, and 
 Clemens Alexandrinus is supposed by some cri- 
 tics, to have confounded Atossa with Semira- 
 mis. 
 
 Demetrius Phalereus, or the rhetorician who 
 assumed his name, celebrates Aristotle for hav- 
 ing perfectly conceived the proper idea of a 
 letter; observing also, that the morals of a man 
 may be discerned in all his compositions, but 
 above all in his letters. The name of Aristotle 
 reminds me, that the memorable letter of Philip 
 to that Philosopher, on the future education of 
 Alexander, may be regarded as a model of 
 princely politeness. 
 
 To become intimately acquainted with the 
 illustrious characters of Greece, in her days of 
 glory, by the aid of their familiar letters, would 
 afford such a gratification to the lovers of lite- 
 rature, that it is not surprising, if some letters 
 have been fabricated for the purpose of ascrib- 
 ing them to the splendid names of Themistocles, 
 Euripides, &c. 
 
 In the collection of Greek Letters, the au- 
 thenticity of which has been so frequently ques- 
 tioned, there are three of a very interesting na-
 
 44 
 
 ture, ascribed to Theano, the wife, or, some au- 
 thors imagine, the daughter of Pythagoras. These 
 letters are so good, that the accomplished Ger- 
 man poet and moralist, Wieland, has translated 
 them into his own language, asserting, that their 
 merit has induced him to believe them genuine ; 
 and strongly recommending to the ladies of his 
 country, the laudable sentiments they display. 
 The first letter contains advice to a mother on 
 the education of her children; the second, ad- 
 vice to a wife, not to resent too roughly the in- 
 fidelity of a husband ; and the third, to a young 
 married friend, on the management of her fe- 
 male domestics. 
 
 The authenticity of the five letters ascribed 
 to Euripides is strenuously asserted by Barnes, 
 and as vehemently denied by Bentley; two la- 
 borious and deep searchers into all the reliques 
 of Grecian literature; yet two pedantic scholars, 
 so ungraceful in the use of their own language, 
 that neither of them can be justly supposed 
 competent to decide a doubtful question of this 
 kind by that perfect delicacy of taste, which is 
 sometimes imagined to constitute a sort of in- 
 tuitive sagacity, sufficient to detect any literary 
 imposture. 
 
 Experience has abundantly shown, that in 
 questions concerning the authenticity of ancient 
 compositions, " much may be said on both sides,"
 
 45 
 
 to use the gentle phrase of the benevolent Sir 
 Roger de Coverley ; and the Epistles of Phalaris 
 are a memorable example to confirm his remark. 
 Those Epistles afforded an extensive field to the 
 active, and contentious spirit of Bentley, who 
 delighted to display his admirable erudition, and 
 his controversial fortitude, against a host of as- 
 sailants. They seem to have considered him as 
 the Polypheme of literature, and to have amused 
 themselves in deriding the intemperance of his 
 anger, though they might shudder at his strength. 
 Had not that extraordinary scholar been influ- 
 enced by a singular passion for such disputes, he 
 would hardly have produced his curious disserta- 
 tions on the epistles of Phalaris ; as the young 
 nobleman, who republished those epistles, sug- 
 gested, in his preface, some arguments, that tend- 
 ed to prove them spurious, instead of asserting 
 that they were not so. Bentley prided himself on 
 detecting the imposture. He is believed to have 
 had truth on his side, in denying them to be ge- 
 nuine. An admirable judge of such controver- 
 sies, the late accomplished and amiable Mr. Tyr- 
 whit, represents Bentley crushing his adversa- 
 ries, as with a stroke of thunder (adversarios 
 velut fulmine prostravisse contentus): yet he 
 conducted the dispute in such a manner, that 
 his young and graceful antagonist, with the as- 
 sistance of some powerful allies, so far triumphed
 
 46 
 
 over the thundering critic, that he exposed the 
 Doctor's petulance to universal derision; and 
 abundantly proved, that, however profound he 
 might be as a scholar, he was deplorably defi- 
 cient in those accomplishments, which ought 
 ever to accompany great learning; good man- 
 ners, good language, and good-nature. 
 
 Not content with asserting, that the Epistles 
 could not be written by Phalaris, Bentley con- 
 sidered them as the composition of some foolish 
 sophist ; an idea, which only shows, that he had 
 not taste enough to relish that kind of merit, 
 which the Epistles certainly possess, and which 
 had so forcibly struck the accomplished Sir Wil- 
 liam Temple, that he was lavish in their praise. 
 The merit I mean, is that of exhibiting many 
 noble sentiments, embellished by brief, perspi- 
 cuous, and energetic expression. 
 
 Here let us observe, to the honor of poetry, 
 that the Epistles of Phalaris are partly indebted 
 for their celebrity to that benevolent satisfac- 
 tion, which readers in general receive, in finding 
 a great poet treated with peculiar regard and 
 distinction, by a person possessed of despotic 
 authority. The letters in which Phalaris is sup- 
 posed to represent himself as friendly and libe- 
 ral to the poet Stesichorus, and to his family, in- 
 spire an inclination to believe them genuine; 
 because thev soothe the mind with an idea, that
 
 47 
 
 great literary talents are able to soften and cor- 
 rect the ferocity of a tyrant 
 
 It is however most probable, they were not 
 written by Phalaris ; but of the greater part of 
 them it may be justly said, they are evidently 
 not the compositions of any foolish and frivol- 
 ous character. 
 
 If I may venture to indulge a hasty conjec- 
 ture, where conjectures are so likely to mislead, I 
 would say, it seems not improbable, the Epistles ' 
 of Phalaris might be written by some young 
 Roman, of a cultivated, and powerful mind; 
 who, like Atticus, Cicero, and Brutus, devoted 
 some time at Athens, to acquire completely the 
 talent of writing the Greek language; and who, 
 in the course of such study, might compose, as 
 literary exercises, the letters in question. 
 
 Having started the supposition, I leave the 
 learned and ingenious reader, to amuse himself 
 by examining, how far it will account (as I think 
 it may) both for the merits, and the defects, that 
 have given such a sort of motley reputation to 
 these memorable Epistles. It is now a general 
 persuasion, that they are not genuine ; but many 
 of the arguments thatBentley produced, to prove 
 them not written by Phalaris, were arguments 
 of an unfortunate cast, and turned against him 
 by his adversaries, with admirable dexterity of 
 derision. There is hardly any piece of contro-
 
 48 
 
 versial ridicule, more happy in its execution^ 
 than that part of Boyle's reply to Bentley, in 
 which he shows, how a future critic might prove, 
 in copying the Doctor's arguments against Pha- 
 laris, that Bentley's dissertation was not written 
 by the Doctor. 
 
 In saying that the Epistles of Phalaris might 
 be written by a Roman student at Athens, I do 
 not mean to insinuate, that none of the later 
 Grecian sophists had talents equal to such a pro- 
 duction. In that tribe of literary characters 
 (often contemptuously described, and often me- 
 riting such contempt) there were undoubtedly 
 several individuals, perfectly able to fabricate 
 a fictitious series of sensible and animated 
 epistles. 
 
 Among the works of several sophists who 
 bore the name Philostratus, there is a curious 
 letter, in which the author delivers his opinion 
 of epistolary writers. 
 
 In enumerating those, who appear to him, 
 after the ancients (such is his expression), to 
 have best understood the proper character of 
 epistolary language, he mentions Apollonius 
 and Dion, among the philosophers; of com- 
 manders, Brutus, or his secretary ; of the em- 
 perors, Marcus Aurelius; of the orators, Hero- 
 des Atticus : he censures, however, the latter, 
 for an affectation of attic elegance; and very
 
 49 
 
 justly observes, that perspicuity should be the 
 primary quality in all works of literature, and 
 especially in a letter. 
 
 Of all the later Pagan epistolary writers in 
 Greek, whose productions have been preserved, 
 Libanius is one of the most voluminous; and he 
 has been celebrated for excellence in this spe- 
 cies of composition. Gibbon speaks too con- 
 temptuously, perhaps, of his extensive corres- 
 pondence near two thousand letters! In some 
 of them, the high-spirited friend and corres- 
 pondent of Julian is far from deserving the title 
 of a dreaming pedant. If he was vain in the dis- 
 play of his own literary powers, he was liberal in 
 commending the eloquence of a rival. In one 
 of his letters to Themistius (printed in the Bib- 
 liotheca G rosea of Fabricius), Libanius bestows 
 on the philosopher this singular eulogy " Tele- 
 machus did not so much resemble his father in 
 person, as you resemble Demosthenes in your 
 orations." Themistius was not only distinguished 
 by his eloquence, but regarded for the benevo- 
 lent mildness of his character. He seems to 
 have enjoyed the rare felicity of being equally 
 esteemed by a christian bishop, and by an apos- 
 tate emperor. Some letters of Julian are ad- 
 dressed to him ; which leads me to observe, that 
 Julian is entitled to some praise for his epistolary 
 talents ; particularly for a manly expression, con- 
 vol. i. E
 
 50 
 
 tained in one of his short letters to a painter * 
 " Such as you have seen me, such represent me !" 
 Happy, if he had discovered the same attach- 
 ment to simplicity and truth, in the more im- 
 portant concerns of Religion! Some Christian 
 fathers of the church, in the age of Julian, are 
 eminent for epistolary elegance; especially the 
 poetical Gregory Nazianzen, the bishop to whom 
 I alluded, as the friend of the philosopher The- 
 mistius. 
 
 But to descend to the letter-writers of the 
 modern world. On the multitudes in different 
 nations, whose epistles are printed in Latin, I 
 will only say, that the Eloisa, who inspired Pope, 
 stands at the head of this innumerable host, for 
 the eloquence of the heart. The use of Latin 
 retarded the advances of epistolary improve- 
 ment in the slowly formed languages of modern 
 Europe; particularly in French, English, and 
 German. Italian vivacity, and Spanish gravity, 
 seem to have employed themselves in making 
 collections of private letters, before any such 
 publication appeared in the language of England 
 or France. I have already mentioned the let- 
 ters of the elder Tasso. Italian letters, still 
 more remarkable, were printed at Venice, in 
 1551 ; the letters of ladies, princes, and various 
 eminent persons, addressed to that strange ex- 
 ample of extensive, but short-lived celebrity,
 
 51 
 
 the satirist Aretine, whose own letters amount 
 to six volumes. Aretine prides himself on be- 
 ing the first publisher of familiar letters ; a dis- 
 tinction that some writers had endeavoured to 
 take from him : but to this distinction his very 
 learned and judicious biographer, Mazzuchelli, 
 though by no means partial to Aretine, has can- 
 didly vindicated his title. Montaigne repre- 
 sents the Italians as the chief publishers of let- 
 ters; and says, he possessed in his own library a 
 hundred volumes of such publications; and that 
 he esteemed the letters of Annibal Caro as the 
 best of all. 
 
 The literature of Italy has been enriched 
 with many excellent collections of letters, since 
 the days of Montaigne; and with one, pecu- 
 liarly interesting to those, who delight in anec- 
 dotes relating to painting and sculpture; a col- 
 lection, in seven quarto volumes, of letters 
 written by the most eminent artists, and relat- 
 ing to works of art. 
 
 In the Spanish language, there is a copious 
 volume of letters by Don Antonio de Guevara, 
 a prelate, who held the orifice of historiographer 
 to the Emperor Charles the fifth; and a prelate 
 of so nice a conscience, that he directed by his 
 will a part of his salary to be restored to his 
 majesty, for a year in which he had added no- 
 thing to his chronicle. His style, as an histo- 
 
 E 2
 
 52 
 
 nan, has been generally censured; but if we 
 may judge of his personal character from his 
 letters, he appears to have been an amiable man. 
 In one, he reproves a female relation, with good- 
 nature, for intemperate sorrow on the death of 
 a little dog; and in another, he draws the cha- 
 racter of a true friend, with great energy of 
 sentiment and expression. 
 
 The scholars of Spain wrote and printed let- 
 ters in their own language, before the polished 
 age of the Emperor Charles the fifth. There is 
 a collection of Spanish letters by Fernan Gomez 
 de Ciudareal, the first edition of which is said 
 to have been printed in 1499. The author was 
 physician to John the second, king of Castile 
 they contain some entertaining particulars re- 
 lating to the history and manners of that time. 
 It appears, from one of them, that the king 
 amused himself in improving a Spanish couplet 
 of his poet and historiographer, Juan de Mena; 
 who seems to have been very highly esteemed, 
 as a friend, by the author of these letters. 
 
 The last of the collection, dated July 1454, 
 contains an account of the king's death he 
 said to his physician, three hours before he ex- 
 pired" I wish I had been born the son of a 
 mechanic, and not king of Castile." 
 
 The physician seems to have had a personal 
 regard for his sovereign ; as he intimates, in the
 
 53 
 
 close of his letter, that he might be retained in 
 the court of his successor, but that he felt too 
 old to attach himself to a new master. 
 
 The French have undoubtedly many collec- 
 tions of letters, that deserve high commenda- 
 tion; but their two celebrated letter- writers, 
 who were for some time the favorites of Eu- 
 rope, Voiture and Balzac, lost much of their 
 celebrity, when taste grew more refined, and 
 learned to value ease and simplicity, as graces 
 essential to a good epistolary style. They had, 
 however, the merit of giving an early polish to 
 the language of their country : they introduced 
 into French prose a degree of fluency and force, 
 which it had not before, but which subsequent 
 writers have carried to much greater perfection. 
 Every modern nation might exhibit a collection 
 of interesting letters, so judiciously formed, as 
 to display, in a very agreeable manner, the rise 
 and gradual progress of improvement in its lan- 
 guage. In France, the writers of printed letters 
 are so numerous, that the difficulty of selection 
 would arise from their multitude. Lord Orrery, 
 the translator of Pliny, bestows singular com- 
 mendation on the epistolary language of Pelis- 
 son ; and Dr. Warton has justly said, in a remark 
 prefixed to the correspondence of Pope, that 
 the letters of Voltaire, amounting to eighteen 
 volumes, " contain a variety of literary history
 
 54 
 
 and criticism, written also to the most cele- 
 brated persons of the age, hardly to be equalled 
 or excelled." 
 
 The letters of Voltaire are indeed admirable 
 for their gayety, and their wit : there is also a 
 rich vein of tender, bold, and generous huma- 
 nity, running through his extensive correspon- 
 dence, that may sometimes almost lead a reader 
 to exclaim, in the words of his own Zara, as she 
 speaks in English, 
 
 " Were he but Christian, what could man be more." 
 
 But the bitter leaven of sarcastic infidelity 
 predominates so frequently in his letters, that it 
 excites in a Christian reader pain, proportioned 
 to the admiration awakened by the versatile 
 powers of a man, unrivalled in the variety, and 
 in the vivacity of his talents. 
 
 If the letters of any French poet are worthy 
 of being compared with those of Cowper, for 
 purity and tenderness of sentiment, they must 
 be the letters of Racine to his friend Boileau, 
 and those addressed to his own son. 
 
 If, among the popular authors of other na- 
 tions, we should seek for the individual, who 
 may be mentioned as a parallel to Cowper, in 
 the simplicity, the sweetness, and the sanctity 
 of his character, both as a man, and a poet; per- 
 haps we might most properly fix on the amiable
 
 55 
 
 Gellert, the favorite of Germany. Though not 
 equal to the author of the Task, in the energy 
 of his poetical powers, he excited in his coun- 
 trymen, of all ranks, that enthusiastic regard, 
 which England, to her own honor, has felt for 
 the character of Cowper. 
 
 The letters of Gellert display an uncommon 
 share of that tender melancholy, that religious 
 fervor, that innocent playfulness of fancy, and 
 that spirit of genuine friendship, which give 
 such attraction to the correspondence of Cow- 
 per; who, in these qualities, and in the elegant 
 simplicity of his style, has hardly an equal, and 
 certainly not a superior, among the most cele- 
 brated letter-writers of England. 
 
 It is remarkable, that though I do not recol- 
 lect to have seen it observed by those, who 
 have lately enumerated our early epistolary wri- 
 ters, that Bishop Hall, who spoke of himself 
 with complacency as the first of English sa- 
 tirists, has declared himself the first publisher of 
 English epistles. 
 
 There is a little volume, neatly printed in 
 1608, containing four decads of epistles, by this 
 patriotic and memorable divine. To these he 
 added two decads more, in 1611. 
 
 In dedicating his book to Prince Henry, the 
 author says: " further, (which these times ac- 
 count not the least praise) your grace shall herein
 
 56 
 
 perceive a new fashion of discourse, by Epistles 
 new to our language, usual to others; and (as 
 novelty is never without some plea of use) more 
 free, more familiar- Thus we do but talk with 
 our friends by our pen, and express ourselves no 
 whit less easily, somewhat more digestedly." 
 
 Many of Hall's epistles may be considered 
 as brief and excellent sermons, being full of re- 
 ligious admonition : there are however a few of 
 them, that seem fairly entitled to the name of 
 familiar letters; particularly the fifth epistle of 
 the first decad to Sir Thomas Challoner, " a 
 report of some observations in my travell." Sir 
 Edmund Bacon was Hall's fellow-traveller. The 
 eighth Epistle in the same decad : to the young 
 Earl of Essex, " advice for his travels." And 
 the second Epistle of the second decad: "of 
 the benefit of retirednesse and secrecy," to Sir 
 Edmund Bacon. 
 
 In a passion for retirement, in vivacity of 
 imagination, and purity of heart, this exemplary 
 prelate seems to have resembled the more illus- 
 trious poetical recluse of Weston; and consider- 
 ing the age in which the Bishop wrote, it is 
 paying a very high and just compliment to his 
 epistolary language, to say, it has several pas- 
 sages, which might be almost mistaken for the 
 language of Cowper. 
 
 This remark leads me to return to the let-
 
 57 
 
 ters of my friend. I have so warmly expressed 
 my opinion of their singular excellence, that it 
 is unnecessary to add any words in their praise. 
 The peculiar ease, harmony, and grace of Cow- 
 per's epistolary style, must be obvious to every 
 intelligent reader; nor is a comment required 
 to prove, that the universal delight, with which 
 his letters are perused, arises particularly from 
 their displaying 
 
 " That lovely sight, a guileless human heart." 
 
 To parody a verse of Young, which it is hardly 
 possible to pronounce, in its original state, with- 
 out shuddering at the dark and distressful idea 
 it exhibits. 
 
 The letters of a recluse are naturally full of 
 egotism ; but egotism, which may be a disgrace 
 indeed to some compositions, is rather a merit 
 and a charm in the letters of persons, whom we 
 love and esteem. Gibbon says happily on this 
 subject, in writing to his excellent mother in 
 law; " We all delight to talk of ourselves, and 
 it is only in letters, in writing to a friend, that 
 we can enjoy that conversation, not only with- 
 out reproach or interruption, but with the highest 
 propriety and mutual satisfaction." 
 
 The lovers of genius and virtue must pe- 
 ruse the correspondence of Cowper with the
 
 58 
 
 eyes of a friend ; and in doing so, they will feel 
 gratified in being enabled to read, what was 
 evidently written for the eyes of friendship 
 alone. They will not think, that he talks too 
 much of himself; for what man, so worthy of 
 being intimately known, could be thought to 
 do so, in talking to a friend, without vanity or 
 affectation ? 
 
 If, in selecting his letters for the press, I 
 should alarm the volatile reader by admitting 
 several of a devotional spirit, I will ingenuously 
 confess my reason for imparting them to the 
 public. There is such tender simplicity, such 
 attractive sweetness, in these serious letters, 
 that I am confident, few professed works of de- 
 votion can equal their efficacy, in awakening 
 and confirming sincere and simple piety in per- 
 sons of various persuasions. His letters and his 
 poetry will-, in this respect, alternately extend, 
 and strengthen the influence of each other. He 
 wrote occasionally to clerical friends of the esta- 
 blished church, and to others among the dissen- 
 ters. His heart made no difference between 
 them, for it felt toward both the fraternal sen- 
 sations of true Christianity. 
 
 The cordial admirers of the poet may exult 
 to reflect, that, after perusing both his delibe- 
 rate productions, and the casual effusions of his
 
 59 
 
 pen, they may justly say of each, what Prior 
 said in verse to Sherlock, on his practical dis- 
 course concerning death. 
 
 " Of heavenly manna 'tis a second feast, 
 " A nation's food, and all to every taste." 
 
 In continuing to commend the compositions 
 of Cowper, I am perfectly aware, that I have 
 been censured as too lavish in the praise of my 
 friend. My only reply to such censure shall 
 be to close these Desultory Remarks on epis- 
 tolary writers with a brief and sweet epistle of 
 Pliny, which expresses most happily all my own 
 feelings on the censure, to which I allude. I 
 am gratified in observing, that I share the dis- 
 credit or the honor, arising from such a charge, 
 \vith one of the most estimable writers of the 
 ancient world, and to justify my perseverance 
 in sentiments, which no adversary could induce 
 me to renounce, I have a pleasure in adopting 
 the very apposite vindication of an advocate so 
 illustrious and so amiable. 
 
 C. PLINIUS SEPTITIO SUO. 
 
 " Ais quosdam apud te reprehendisse tan- 
 quam amicos meos ex omni occasione ultra mo- 
 dum laudem. Agnosco crimen, amplector etiam. 
 Quid enim honestius culpa benignitatis? Qui
 
 60 
 
 sunt tamen isti, qui amicos meos melius norint? 
 Sed ut norint, quid invident mihi felicissimum 
 errorem? Ut enim non sint tales, quales a me 
 prsedicantur, ego tamen beatus quod mihi vi- 
 dentur. Igitur ad alios hanc sinistram diligen- 
 tiam conferant : nee sunt parum multi, qui car- 
 pere amicos suos judicium vocant: mihi nun- 
 quam persuadebunt, ut meos amari a me nimium 
 putem Vale." Plin. Lib. 7- Epist. 28. 
 
 It may gratify many readers to find here a 
 version of Pliny's letter, transcribed from Mel- 
 moth, his justly admired translator. 
 
 TO SEPTTTIUS. 
 
 There are, it seems, who have condemned 
 me to you, as being upon all occasions too lavish 
 in commendation of my friends. I acknowledge 
 the charge, and glory in it too ; for can there be 
 a nobler error than an excess of benevolence? 
 But still, who are these, let me ask, that are 
 better acquainted with my friends, than I am 
 myself? Yet grant there are any such, why will 
 they deny me so pleasing a mistake? For sup- 
 posing my friends deserve not the highest en- 
 comiums I give them, certainly I am happy in 
 believing they do. Let them recommend then 
 this ungenerous strictness to those (and their 
 number is not inconsiderable) who imagine they
 
 61 
 
 show their judgment, when they indulge their 
 censure. As for myself, they will never be able 
 to persuade me, I can be guilty of an excess in 
 friendship. Farewell ! 
 
 Soon after these Remarks were first sent to 
 the press, a young friend, extensively acquainted 
 with German literature, obligingly sent me a 
 work of Gellert, which I had never seen, and 
 which my friend had kindly translated into 
 English, that I might peruse it with the greater 
 rapidity. It is entitled, " A practical Essay on 
 good Taste in Epistolary Writing." Its chief 
 purpose was, to caution the author's young dis- 
 ciples against the false taste that had prevailed 
 in some admired letter-writers of his own coun- 
 try; but it contains many judicious observa- 
 tions on various authors of universal celebrity. 
 
 " The number of German treatises on letter- 
 writing (says Gellert) is considerable; those in 
 Latin however are bv far the most numerous. 
 They have been chiefly composed by men of 
 deep erudition; and serve to show, that the at- 
 tempt to reduce letter-writing to a regular art 
 is a fruitless undertaking." 
 
 Gellert, after enumerating some of these un- 
 profitable attempts, proceeds thus " The short
 
 62 
 
 letter of Gregory Nazianzen to Nicobulus, on the 
 conciseness, perspicuity, and elegance of a let- 
 ter, is worth more perhaps than many cumbrous 
 treatises." This animated eulogy led me to ex- 
 amine the letter so recommended, and a very 
 lively passage at the end of it pleased me parti- 
 cularly. " I will close (says Gregory to his cor- 
 respondent) by telling you what 1 heard from 
 a man of judgment, speaking of the eagle: 
 when the birds assembled to choose a sovereign, 
 and most Of them had adorned themselves with 
 a variety of ornaments, the eagle was allowed to 
 be the most beautiful, because he made no pre- 
 tensions to beauty." This little fable may serve 
 to illustrate thc'singular charm, that belongs to 
 Cowper in his epistolary character the lan- 
 guage of his letters is the eagle of Gregory. 
 
 I am the less inclined to fear, that partiality 
 to my incomparable friend may have led me to 
 overrate the excellence of his letters, because 
 several most competent judges of their merit, 
 not personally acquainted with Cowper, have 
 assured me, that they feel in them an attraction, 
 which they do not find in the printed letters of 
 any other man, ancient or modern. If it is pos- 
 sible to express by any single word the peculi- 
 arities of the writer, in which this attraction con- 
 sists, I apprehend they may be comprised in the 
 word delicacy; and to render my meaning per-
 
 fectly clear, I annex to that comprehensive word 
 the following definition of it, as applied to lan- 
 guage, which Dr. Lancaster introduced in his 
 celebrated Essay on this enchanting quality of 
 exquisite composition. 
 
 " Delicacy is good sense refined, which pro- 
 duces an inviolable attachment to decorum and 
 sanctity, as well as elegance of manners; with 
 a clear discernment and warm sensibility of what- 
 ever is pure, regular, and polite; and at the same 
 time an abhorrence of whatever is gross, rustic, 
 or impure; of unnatural, effeminate, and over- 
 wrought ornaments of every kind; it is, in short, 
 the graceful, and the beautiful, added to the just 
 and the good." 
 
 Such delicacy reigned in the mind and heart 
 of Cowper, and has given to his letters a pecu- 
 liar distinction.
 
 THE 
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 PART THE FIRST, 
 
 Jngenium probitas, artemque modestia vincit. 
 
 I he family of Cowper appears to have held, 
 for several centuries, a respectable rank among 
 the merchants and gentry of England. We learn 
 from the life of the first Earl Cowper, in the 
 Biographia Britannica, that his ancestors were 
 inhabitants of Sussex, in the reign of Edward 
 the fourth. The name is found repeatedly among 
 the Sheriffs of London; and William Cowper, 
 who resided as a country gentleman in Kent, 
 was created a Baronet by King Charles the first, 
 in 1641.* But the family rose to higher distinc- 
 
 * This gentleman was a writer of English verse, and with 
 rare munificence bestowed both an epitaph and a monument on 
 that illustrious divine the venerable Hooker. In the edition of 
 Walton's Lives, by Dr. Zouch, the cuiious reader may find the 
 epitaph written by Sir William Cowper. 
 
 VOL. J. P His
 
 66 
 
 tion in the beginning of the last century, by the 
 remarkable circumstance of producing two bro- 
 
 His descendant, the poet of Weston, in speaking with moral 
 pleasantry on the common pride of pedigree, expressed a per- 
 suasion, that one of his progenitors migrated from Scotland in a 
 very humble condition. Since the first publication of this Life, 
 I chanced to find, in a scarce little book of biography, Thomas 
 Fuller's Abel Redivivus, quarto, 1651, an account of a Scottish 
 William Cowper, a religious author, so remarkable for the 
 warmth of his piety, and the elegance of his language, that if 
 his works had fallen into the hands of his namesake at Weston, 
 the English poet might have felt a liberal satisfaction in suppos- 
 ing himself allied to the Scottish divine. The person to whom 
 I allude, migrated indeed into England, and certainly in an 
 humble state, according to his own account of his early life in 
 the following words : " Having passed my course in Saint An- 
 " drew's, I returned to my parents in Edenborough. I was 
 " pressed by them to enter into sundry sorts of life I liked not, 
 " for my heart still inclined to the study of the holy scriptures ; 
 " whereupon I resolved to go into England, where I evidently 
 " perceived the Lord going before me, and providing for me 
 " at Hoddesden, within eighteen miles of London : my meane 
 " portion, which I had, being all spent (I speak it to his glory 
 " that cared for me) in that same place, that same day, was I 
 " desired by our kind countryman Master Guthrie, to help him 
 " in the teaching of a school." The young enthusiastic pilgrim 
 was at this time only sixteen. He afterwards studied theology 
 under some learned divines in London, with the consent of his 
 friend Guthrie. At the age of nineteen, he returned to Edin- 
 burgh ; and in the course of a devout, active, and exemplary 
 life, became Bishop of Galloway. He died as he had lived, 
 eminent for the tranquil fervency of his faith. Ten years after 
 his death, his collected works were published at London, in a 
 neat and copious folio, i62Q. They breathe a spirit of cordial
 
 67 
 
 thers, who both obtained a seat in the House of 
 Peers, by eminence in the profession of the law. 
 William, the eldest, became Lord High Chan- 
 cellor in 1 707. Spencer Cowper, the youngest, 
 was appointed Chief Justice of Chester in 1?17, 
 and afterwards a Judge in th.court-of Common 
 Pleas, being permitted by the particular favor 
 of the king to hold those two offices to the end 
 of his life. He died in Lincoln's Inn, on the 
 tenth of December, 1728; and has the higher 
 claim to our notice, as the immediate ancestor 
 
 piety, and, if we consider the time and country of the writer, 
 the simplicity and the strength of his style may be thought pe- 
 culiarly worthy of commendation. He introduces several of 
 his religious treatises with a variety of dedicatory epistles, which 
 show that his ardent devotion was united to great elegance of 
 manners. He appears to have been familiar with many illus- 
 trious persons of his time; and there is a sonnet prefixed to his 
 Commentary on the Revelation, by that admirable Scottish 
 Poet, Drummond of Hawthornden, which, as it is omitted in 
 the collected works of Drummond, printed in 171 1 , I should 
 have inserted here, had I not seen it again in a recent and inte- 
 resting publication, the Lives of the Scottish Poets, by Mr. 
 David Irving. As the learned Bishop of Galloway addressed 
 some of his compositions to King James the first, to his Queen, 
 and to his son Prince Henry, it seems not improbable, that the 
 person made a Baronet by Charles the first might be related t<> 
 this eloquent and highly esteemed Bishop Cowper ; of whom I 
 will only add, that he was buried in Edinburgh, his native city, 
 1619, and attended to the grave by die Earl of Dumfermeline, 
 chancellor, with the lords of council, &c, and honoured in a 
 funeral sermou by the Arcfebishop of St Andrew's. 
 F 2
 
 68 
 
 of the poet. By his first wife, Judith Penning- 
 ton (whose exemplary character is still revered 
 by her descendants) Judge Cowper left several 
 children ; among them a daughter Judith, who 
 at the age of eighteen discovered a striking ta- 
 lent for poetry, in the praise of her contempo- 
 rary poets, Pope and Hughes. This lady, the 
 wife of Colonel Madan, transmitted her own poe- 
 tical and devout spirit to her daughter Frances 
 Maria, who was married to her cousin, Major 
 Cowper; the amiable character of Maria will 
 unfold itself in the course of this work, as the 
 friend and correspondent of her more eminent 
 relation, the second grandchild of the Judge des- 
 tined to honour the name of Cowper by display- 
 ing, with peculiar purity and fervor, the double 
 enthusiasm of poetry and devotion. The father 
 of the great author to whom I allude, was John 
 ' Cowper, the Judge's second son, who took his 
 degrees in divinity, was Chaplain to King George 
 the Secondhand resided at his rectory of Great 
 Berkhamps-tead, in Hertfordshire, the scene of 
 the poet's infancy, which he has thus comme- 
 morated, in a singularly beautiful and pathetic 
 composition on the portrait of his mother. 
 
 Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no morej 
 Children, not thine, have trod my nurs'ry floor; 
 And where the gardner Robin, day by day, 
 Drew me to school, along the public way,
 
 69 
 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capp'd j 
 
 'Tis now become a hist'ry little known, 
 
 That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. " 
 
 Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair 
 
 That Mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, 
 
 Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd 
 
 A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. 
 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 
 That thou mightst 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, till fresh they shone and glow'd; 
 
 All this, and more endearing still than all, 
 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 
 
 Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, 
 
 That humour interpos'd too often makes : 
 
 All this, still legible, in Mem'ry's page, 
 
 And still to be so to my latest age, 
 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 
 Such honors to thee, as my numbers may. 
 
 The parent, whose merits are so feelingly re 
 corded by the filial tenderness of the poet, was 
 Ann daughter of Roger Donne, Esq., of Ludhaw 
 Hall, in Norfolk. This lady, whose family is 
 said to have been originally from Wales, was 
 married in the bloom of youth to Dr. Cowper. 
 After giving birth to several children, who died 
 in their infancy, and leaving two sons, William, 
 the immediate subject of this memorial, born at
 
 70 
 
 Berkhampstead on the twenty-sixth of Novem- 
 ber, n . s., 1 73 1 , and John (whose accomplishments 
 and memorable death will be described in the 
 course of this compilation) she died in child- 
 bed, at the early age of thirty-four, in 1737- It 
 rnay be wished, that the painter, employed to 
 preserve a resemblance of such a woman, had 
 possessed those powers of graceful and perfect 
 delineation, which, in a different art, belonged 
 to the pen of her son; but her portrait, executed 
 by Heins in oil colours, on a small scale, is a 
 production infinitely inferior to the very beau- 
 tiful poem to which it gave rise. Those who 
 delight in contemplating the best affections of 
 our nature, will ever admire the tender sensibi- 
 lity, with which the poet has acknowledged his 
 obligations to his amiable mother, in a poem 
 composed more than fifty years after her de- 
 cease. Readers of this description may find a 
 pleasure in observing how the praise so liberally 
 bestowed on this tender parent, at so late a pe- 
 riod, is confirmed (if praise so unquestionable 
 may be said to receive confirmation) by another 
 poetical record of her merit, which the hand of 
 affinity and affection bestowed upon her tomb. 
 A record written at a time, when the poet who 
 was destined to prove, in his advanced life, her 
 most powerful eulogist, had hardly begun to
 
 71 
 
 show the dawn of that genius, which, after many 
 years of silent affliction, arose like a star emerg- 
 ing from tempestuous darkness. 
 
 The monument of Mrs. Cowper, erected by 
 her husband in the chancel of St. Peter's church 
 at Berkhampstead, contains the following verses, 
 composed by a young lady, her niece, the late 
 Lady Walsingham. 
 
 Here lies, in early years bereft of life, 
 The best of mothers, and the kindest wife. 
 Who neither knew, nor practis'd any art, 
 Secure in all she wish'd, her husband's heart. 
 Her love to him, still prevalent in death, 
 Pray'd Heav'n to bless him with her latest breath. 
 
 Still was she studious never to offend, 
 And glad of an occasion to commend : 
 With ease would pardon injuries receiv'd, 
 Nor e'er was cheerful, when another griev'd. 
 Despising state, with her own lot content, 
 Enjoy'd the comforts of a life well spent. 
 Resign'd, when Heav'n demanded back her breath, 
 Her mind heroic 'midst the pangs of death. 
 
 Whoe'er thou art, that dost this tomb draw near, 
 O stay awhile, and shed a friendly tear; 
 These lines, though weak, are as herself sincere. 
 
 The truth and tenderness of this epitaph 
 will more than compensate with every candid 
 reader the imperfection ascribed to it by its 
 young and modest author. To have lost a pa* 
 rent of a character so virtuous and endearing, 
 at an early period of his childhood, was the
 
 72 
 
 prime misfortune of Cowper, and what contri^ 
 buted perhaps in the highest degree to the dark 
 colouring of his subsequent life. The influence 
 of a good mother on the first years of her chil- 
 dren, whether nature has given them peculiar 
 strength or peculiar delicacy of frame, is equally 
 inestimable: it is the prerogative and the feli- 
 city of such a mother, to temper the arrogance 
 of the strong, and to dissipate the timidity of 
 the tender. The infancy of Cowper was deli- 
 cate in no common degree; and his consti- 
 tution discovered at a very early season that 
 morbid tendency to diffidence, to melancholy, 
 and despair, which darkened, as he advanced in 
 years, into periodical fits of the most deplorable 
 depression. 
 
 It may afford an ample field for useful re- 
 flection, to observe, in speaking of a child, that 
 he was destined to excite in his progress through 
 life, the highest degrees of admiration, and of 
 pity of admiration for mental excellence, and 
 of pity for mental disorder. 
 
 We understand human nature too imper- 
 fectly, to ascertain in what measure the original 
 structure of his frame, and the casual incidents 
 of his life, contributed to the happy perfection 
 of his genius, or to the calamitous eclipses of his 
 effulgent mind. Yet such were the talents, the 
 virtues, and the misfortunes of this wonderful
 
 73 
 
 person, that it is hardly possible for Biography, 
 extensive as her province is, to speak of a more 
 interesting individual, or to select a subject, on 
 which it may be more difficult ta satisfy a va- 
 riety of readers. In feeling all the weight of 
 this difficulty, I may still be confident, that I 
 shall not utterly disappoint his sincerest admi- 
 rers, if the success of my endeavours to make 
 him more known, and more beloved, is propor- 
 tioned, in any degree, to the zeal, with which I 
 cultivated his friendship, and to the gratifica- 
 tion, that I feel, in recalling to my own recol- 
 lection, the delightful extent and diversity of 
 his literary powers, with the equally delightful 
 sweetness of his social character. 
 
 But the powerful influence of such recollec- 
 tion has drawn me imperceptibly from the proper 
 course of my narrative I return to the child- 
 hood of Cowper. In first quitting the house of 
 his parents, he was sent to a reputable school at 
 Market-street in Hertfordshire, under the care 
 of Dr. Pitman; and it is probable, that he was 
 removed from it in consequence of an ocular 
 complaint. From a circumstance, which he re- 
 lates of himself at that period, in a letter written 
 to me in 1 7^2, he seems to have been in danger 
 of resembling Milton in the misfortune of blind- 
 ness, as he resembled him, more happily, in the 
 fervency of a devout and poetical spirit.
 
 74 
 
 " I have been all my life," says Cowper, 
 " subject to inflammations of the eye, and in 
 " my boyish days had specks on both, that 
 " threatened to cover them. My father, alarmed 
 " for the consequences, sent me to a female 
 " oculist of great renown at that time, in whose 
 " house I abode two years, but to no good pur- 
 " pose. From her I went to Westminster school, 
 " where, at the age of fourteen, the small-pox 
 " seized me, and proved the better oculist of 
 " the two, for it delivered me from them all: 
 " not however from great liableness to inflam- 
 " mation ; to which I am in a degree still sub- 
 " ject, though much less than formerly, since I 
 " have been constant in the use of a hot foot- 
 " bath every night, the last thing before going 
 " to rest." 
 
 It appears a strange process in education, to 
 send a tender child, from a long residence in 
 the house of a female oculist, immediately into 
 all the hardships that a little delicate boy must 
 have to encounter at a public school. But the 
 mother of Cowper was dead; and fathers, though 
 good men, are, in general, utterly unfit to ma- 
 nage their young and tender orphans. The 
 little Cowper was sent to his first school in the 
 year of his mother's death; and how ill suited 
 the scoae was to his peculiar character, must be 
 evident to all, who have heard him describe his
 
 75 
 
 sensations in that season of life, which is often, 
 very erroneously, extolled as the happiest pe- 
 riod of human existence. He has heen fre- 
 quently heard to lament the persecution he sus- 
 tained in his childish years, from the cruelty of 
 his school-fellows, in the two scenes of his edu- 
 cation. His own forcible expression represented 
 him, at Westminster, as not daring to raise his 
 eye above the shoe-buckle of the elder boys, 
 who were too apt to tyrannize over his gentle 
 spirit. The acuteness of his feelings in his 
 childhood rendered those important years (which 
 might have produced, under tender cultivation, 
 a series of lively enjoyments) miserable years of 
 increasing timidity and depression; which in 
 the most cheerful hours of his advanced life he 
 could hardly describe to an intimate friend, 
 without shuddering at the recollection of his 
 early wretchedness. Yet to this perhaps the 
 world is indebted for the pathetic and moral 
 eloquence of those forcible admonitions to pa- 
 rents, which give interest and beauty to his ad- 
 mirable poem on public schools. Poets may be 
 said to realize, in some measure, the poetical 
 idea of the nightingale's singing with a thorn 
 at her breast; as their most exquisite songs have 
 often originated in the acuteness of their per- 
 sonal sufferings. Of this obvious truth the poem 
 I have just mentioned is a very memorable ex-
 
 ample ; and if any readers have thought the poet 
 too severe in his strictures on that system of 
 education, to which we owe some of the most 
 accomplished characters that ever gave cele- 
 brity to a civilized nation, such readers will be 
 candidly reconciled to that moral severity of 
 reproof, in recollecting, that it flowed from se- 
 vere personal experience, united to the purest 
 spirit of philanthropy and patriotism. 
 
 Cowper's exhortation to fathers, to educate 
 their own sons, is a model of persuasive elo- 
 quence, and not inferior to similar exhortations 
 in the eloquent Rousseau, or in the accomplished 
 translator of Tansillo's poem, The Nurse; by 
 which these enchanting writers have induced, 
 and will continue to induce, so many mothers in 
 polished life to suckle their own children. Yet 
 similar as these exhortations may be esteemed, 
 in their benevolent design, and in their graceful 
 expression, there are two powerful reasons, which 
 must in all probability prevent their being at- 
 tended with similar success. In the first place, 
 woman has, in general, much stronger propensity 
 than man to the perfect discharge of parental du- 
 ties ; and secondly, the avocations of men are so 
 imperious, in their different lines of life, that few 
 fathers could command sufficient leisure (if na- 
 ture furnished them with talents and inclination) 
 to fuifii the arduous office of preceptor to their
 
 77 
 
 own children; yet, arduous and irksome as the 
 office is generally thought, there is perhaps no 
 species of mental labour so perfectly sweet in 
 its success ; and the poet justly exclaims : 
 
 O ! 'tis a sight to be with joy perus'd, 
 
 A sight surpass'd by none, that we can show ? 
 
 A father blest with an ingenuous son, 
 Father, and friend, and tutor, all in one. 
 
 Had the constitutional shyness and timidity 
 of Cowper been gradually dispelled by the rare 
 advantage that he describes in these verses, his 
 early years would certainly have been happier; 
 but men, who are partial to public schools, will 
 probably doubt, if any system of private tuition 
 could have proved more favorable to the future 
 display of his genius, than such an education as 
 he received at Westminster. There, indeed, the 
 peculiar delicacy of his nature might expose 
 him to an extraordinary portion of juvenile dis- 
 comfort; yet he undoubtedly acquired the ac- 
 complishment, and the reputation of scholarship; 
 with the advantage of being known and esteemed 
 by some aspiring youths of his own age, who 
 were destined to become conspicuous and power- 
 ful in the splendid scenes of the world. 
 
 With these acquisitions, he left Westminster 
 at the age of eighteen, in 1/49; and as if destiny
 
 had determined, that all his early situations in 
 life should be peculiarly irksome to his delicate 
 feelings, and tend rather to promote, than to 
 counteract, his constitutional tendency to me- 
 lancholy, he was removed from a public school 
 to the office of an attorney. He resided three 
 years in the house of a Mr. Chapman, to whom 
 he was engaged by articles for that time. Here 
 he was placed for the study of a profession, 
 which nature seemed resolved, that he never 
 should practise. 
 
 The law is a kind of soldiership, and like the 
 profession of arms, it may be said to require for 
 the constitution of its heroes 
 
 " A frame of adamant, a soul of fire." 
 
 The soul of Cowper had indeed its fire, but fire 
 so refined and aethereal, that it could not be ex- 
 pected to shine in the gross atmosphere of 
 worldly contention. Perhaps there never ex- 
 isted a mortal, who possessing with a good per- 
 son, intellectual powers naturally strong, and 
 highly cultivated, was so utterly unfit to en- 
 counter the bustle and perplexities of public 
 life. But the extreme modesty and shyness of 
 his nature, which disqualified him for scenes of 
 business and ambition, endeared him inexpres- 
 sibly to those, who had opportunities to enjoy
 
 79 
 
 his society, and faculties to appreciate the un- 
 common excellence of his character. 
 
 Reserved as he was to an extraordinary and 
 painful degree, his heart and mind were yet ad- 
 mirably fashioned by nature for all the refined 
 intercourse, and confidential delights, both of 
 friendship and love : but though apparently 
 formed to possess and to communicate an ex- 
 traordinary portion of felicity, the incidents of 
 his life were such, that, conspiring with the pe- 
 culiarities of his nature, they rendered him, at 
 different times, the most unhappy of mankind. 
 The variety and depth of his sufferings, in early 
 life, from extreme tenderness of heart, are very 
 forcibly displayed in the following verses, which 
 formed part of a letter to one of his female rela- 
 tions, at the time they were composed. The 
 letter has perished, and the verses owe their 
 preservation to the affectionate memory of the 
 lady, to whom they were addressed. 
 
 Doom'd, as I am, in solitude to waste 
 The present moments, and regret the pastj 
 Depriv'd of ev'ry joy I valued most, 
 My friend torn from me, and my mistress lost 3 
 Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien, 
 The dull effect of humour, or of spleen ! 
 Still, still, I mourn, with each returning day, 
 Him snatch'd, by fate, in early youth away ; 
 And her through tedious years of doubt and pain, 
 Fix'd in her choice, and faithful but in vain. 
 
 Sir William Russel, the favorite friend uf the young poet.
 
 80 
 
 O prone to pity, gen'rous, and sincere, 
 Whose eye ne'er yet refus'd the wretch a tear ; 
 Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, 
 Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes j 
 See me ere yet my distant course half done, 
 Cast forih 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 sorrow shade my brow, 
 And ready tears wait only leave to flow -' 
 Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free. 
 All that delights the happy palls with me ! 
 
 When he quitted the house of the solicitor, 
 where he was placed to acquire the rudiments 
 of litigation, he settled himself in chambers of 
 the Inner-Temple, as a regular student of law; 
 but although he resided there to the age of 
 thirty-three, he rambled (according to his own 
 colloquial account of his early years) from the 
 thorny road of his austere patroness, Jurispru- 
 dence, into the primrose paths of literature and 
 poetry. Even here his native diffidence con- 
 fined him to social and subordinate exertions. 
 He wrote and printed both verse and prose, as 
 the concealed assistant of less diffident authors. 
 During his residence in the Temple, he culti- 
 vated the friendship of some eminent literary 
 characters, who had been his school-fellows at 
 Westminster; particularly Colman, Bonnel Thorn- 
 ton, and Lloyd. His regard to the two former
 
 81 
 
 induced him to contribute to their periodical 
 publication, entitled the Connoisseur, three ex- 
 cellent papers, which the reader will find in the 
 Appendix to these volumes; and from which he 
 will perceive, that Cowper had such talents for 
 this pleasant and useful species of composition, 
 as might have rendered him a worthy associate, 
 in such labours, to Addison himself, whose grace- 
 ful powers have never been surpassed in that 
 province of literature, which may still be consi- 
 dered as peculiarly his own. 
 
 The intimacy of Cowper and Lloyd may 
 have given rise perhaps to some early produc- 
 tions of our poet, which it may now be hardly 
 possible to ascertain; the probability of this 
 conjecture arises from the necessities of Lloyd, 
 and the affectionate liberality of his friend. As 
 the former was tempted by his narrow finances 
 to engage in periodical works, it is highly pro- 
 bable, that the pen of Cowper, ever ready to se- 
 cond the charitable wishes of his heart, might 
 be devoted to the service of an indigent author, 
 whom he appears to have loved with a very cor- 
 dial affection. I find that affection agreeably 
 displayed in a sportive poetical epistle, which 
 may claim a place in this volume, not only as an 
 early specimen of Cowper's poetry, but as cxhi- 
 bitins: a sketch of his own mind at the a^e of 
 twenty-three. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 S2 
 
 AN EPISTLE 
 
 ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ. 
 
 1754. 
 
 Ti s not that I design to rob 
 
 Thee of thy birth-right, gentle Bob, 
 
 For thou art born sole heir, and single, 
 
 Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle; 
 
 Nor that I mean, while thus I knit 
 
 My thread-bare sentiments together, 
 
 To show my genius, or my wit, 
 
 When God and you know, I have neither; 
 
 Or such, as might be better shown 
 
 By letting poetry alone. 
 
 'Tis not with either of these views, 
 
 That I presume t' address the Muse : 
 
 But to divert a fierce banditti, 
 
 (Sworn foes to ev'ry thing that's witty !) 
 
 That, with a black, infernal train, 
 
 Make cruel inroads in my brain, 
 
 And daily threaten to drive thence 
 
 My little garrison of sense : 
 
 The fierce banditti, which I mean, 
 
 Are gloomy thoughts, led on by Spleen. 
 
 Then there's another reason yet, 
 
 Which is, that I may fairly quit 
 
 The debt, which justly became due 
 
 The moment, when I heard from you :
 
 83 
 
 And you might grumble, crony mine, 
 If paid in any other com ; 
 Since twenty sheets of lead, God kpows, 
 (I would say twenty sheets of prose), 
 Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much 
 As one of gold, and yours was such. 
 Thus, the preliminaries settled, 
 I fairly find myself pitch kettkd-* 
 And cannot see, tho' few see better, 
 How I shall hammer out a letter. 
 
 First, for a thought since all agree 
 A thought I have it let me see 
 Tis gone again plague on't! I thought 
 I had it but I have it not. 
 Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son, 
 That useful thing, her needle, gone ! 
 Rake well the cinders ; sweep the floor, 
 And sift the dust behind the door; 
 While eager Hodge beholds the prize 
 In old grimalkin's glaring eyes; 
 And gammer finds it on her knees 
 In every shining straw she sees. 
 This simile were apt enough ; 
 But I've another, critic-proof! 
 The virtuoso thus, at nooTi, 
 Broiling beneath a July sun, 
 The gilded butterfly pursues, 
 0'e* hedge and ditch, thro' gaps and mews; 
 And after many a vain essay, 
 To captivate the tempting prey, 
 
 * Pitch-kettled, a favorite phrnse at the time when this Epistle 
 was written, expressive of being puzzled, or what in the Spectator's 
 time would have been called bamboozled. 
 G 2
 
 84 
 
 Gives him at length the lucky pu% 
 
 And has him safe beneath his hat: 
 
 Then lifts it gently from the ground; 
 
 But ah! 'tis lost as soon as found; 
 
 Culprit his liberty regains; 
 
 Flits out, of sight, and mocks his pains. 
 
 The sense was dark; 'twas therefore fit 
 
 With simile t' illustrate it; 
 
 But as too much obscures the sight, 
 
 As often as too little light, 
 
 We have our similes cut short, 
 
 For matters of more grave import. 
 
 That Matthew's numbers run with easr 
 
 Each man of common sense agrees; 
 
 All men of common sense allow, 
 
 That Robert's lines are easy too : 
 
 Where then the preference shall we place, 
 
 Or how do justice in this case? 
 
 Matthew (says Fame) with endless pains, 
 
 Smooth'd and refin'd the meanest strains; 
 
 Nor suffer'd one ill-chosen rhyme 
 
 T' escape him at the idlest time; 
 
 And thus o'er all a lustre cast, 
 
 That, while the language lives, shall last. 
 
 An't please your ladyship (quoth I), 
 
 For 'tis my business to reply ; 
 
 Sure so much labour, so much toil, 
 
 Bespeak at least a stubborn soil : 
 
 Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed, 
 
 Who both write well, and write full speed! 
 
 Who throw their Helicon about 
 
 As freely as a conduit spout!
 
 85 
 
 Friend Robert, thus like chien scavant, 
 Lets fall a poem en passant, 
 Nor needs his genuine ore refine! 
 'Tis ready polish'd from the mine. 
 
 It may be proper to observe, that this lively 
 praise on the playful talents of Lloyd was writ- 
 ten six years before that amiable, but unfortu- 
 nate, author published the best of his serious 
 poems, The Actor, a composition of consider- 
 able merit. It proved a prelude to the more 
 powerful and popular Rosciad of Churchill; who, 
 after surpassing Lloyd as a rival, assisted him 
 very liberally as a friend. While Cowper re- 
 sided in the Temple, he seems to have been per- 
 sonally acquainted with the most eminent writ- 
 ers of the time; and the interest, which he pro- 
 bably, took in their recent works, tended to in- 
 crease his powerful, though diffident, passion for 
 poetry; and to train him imperceptibly to that 
 masterly command of language, which he dis- 
 played, almost as a new talent, at the age of 
 fifty. One of his first associates has informed 
 me, that before he quitted London, he frequently 
 amused himself in translating from ancient and 
 modern poets, and devoted his composition to 
 the service of any friend who requested it. In 
 a copy of Duncombe's Horace, printed in 1 759,
 
 86 
 
 I find two of the Satires translated by Cowper. 
 The Duncombes, father and son, were amiable 
 scholars, of a Hertfordshire family; and the 
 elder Duncombe, in his printed letters, men- 
 tions Dr. Cowper (the father of the poet) as one 
 of his friends, who possessed a talent for poetry, 
 exhibiting at the same time a respectable spe- 
 cimen of his verse. The Duncombes, in the 
 preface to their Horace, impute the size of 
 their work to the poetical contributions of their 
 friends. At what time the two Satires I have 
 mentioned were translated by William Cowper, 
 I have not been able to ascertain ; but they are 
 worthy of his pen, and will therefore appear in 
 the Appendix to these volumes. 
 
 Speaking of his own early life, in a letter to 
 Mr. Park (dated March, 1792), Cowper says, 
 with that extreme modesty, which was one of 
 his most remarkable characteristics: "From the 
 " age of twenty to thirty-three I was occupied, 
 " or ought to have been, in the study of the law; 
 " from thirty-three to sixty, I have spent my 
 " time in the country, where my reading has 
 " been only an apology for idleness ; and where, 
 " when I had not either a magazine, or a review, 
 " I was sometimes a carpenter, at others, a bird- 
 " cage-maker, or a gardener, or a drawer of land- 
 " scapes. At fifty years of age I commenced 
 " author: it is a whim, that has served me
 
 87 
 
 " longest, and best, and will probably be my 
 last." 
 
 Lightly as this unassuming poet has spoken 
 of his own exertions, and late as he appeared to 
 himself in producing his chief poetical works, 
 he had received from nature a contemplative 
 spirit, perpetually acquiring a store of mental 
 treasure, which he at last unveiled, to delight 
 and astonish the world with its unexpected mag- 
 nificence. Even his juvenile verses discover a 
 mind deeply impressed with sentiments of piety ; 
 and in proof of this assertion, I select a few 
 stanzas from an Ode, written when he was very 
 young, on reading Sir Charles Grandison. 
 
 To rescue from the tyrant's sword 
 Th' oppress'dj unseen and unimplor'd, 
 
 To cheer the face of wo j 
 From lawless insult to defend 
 An orphan's right a fallen friend, 
 
 And a forgiven foe ; 
 
 These, these, distinguish from the crowd, 
 And these alone, the great and good, 
 
 The guardians of mankind; 
 Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, 
 O, with what matchless speed, they leave 
 
 The multitude behind! 
 
 Then ask ye, from what cause on Earth 
 Virtues like these derive their birth, 
 Deriv'd from Heaven alone,
 
 88 
 
 Full on that favour'd breast they shine, 
 Where faith and resignation join 
 To call the blessing down. 
 
 Such is that heart : but while the Muse 
 Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues, 
 
 Her feeble spirits faint : 
 She cannot reach, and would not wrong, 
 That subject for an Angel's song, 
 
 The Hero, and the Saint! 
 
 His early turn to moralise, on the slightest 
 occasion, will appear from the following Verses, 
 which he wrote at the age of eighteen; and in 
 which those, who love to trace the rise and pro- 
 gress of genius, will, I think, be pleased to re- 
 mark the very promising seeds of those peculiar 
 powers, which unfolded themselves in the rich- 
 est maturity at a distant period, and rendered 
 that beautiful and sublime poem, The Task, the 
 most instructive and interesting of modern com- 
 positions. Young as the poet was, when he pro- 
 duced the following lines, we may observe, that 
 he had probably been four years in the habit of 
 writing English verse; as he has said in one of 
 his letters, that he began his poetical career at 
 the age of fourteen, by translating an Elegy of 
 Tibullus. I have reason to believe, that he wrote 
 many poems in early life; and the singular merit
 
 89 
 
 of this juvenile composition is sufficient to make 
 the friends of genius regret, that an excess of 
 diffidence prevented him from preserving the 
 poetry of his youth. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FINDING THE HEEL 
 OF A SHOE, IN 1748. 
 
 Fortune! I thank thee: gentle Goddess! thanks! 
 
 Not that my Muse, tho' bashful, shall deny, 
 
 She would have thank'd thee rather, hadst thou cast 
 
 A treasure in her way; for neither meed 
 
 Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes, 
 
 And bowel-racking pains of emptiness, 
 
 Nor noontide feast, nor ev'ning's cool repast, 
 
 Hopes she from this presumptuous, tho', perhaps, 
 
 The cobler, leather-carving artist ! might. 
 
 Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon, 
 
 Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock, 
 
 Vain glorious fool ! unknowing what he found, 
 
 Spurn'd the rich gem, thou gav'st him. Wherefore, ah! 
 
 Why not on me that favor, (worthier sure!) 
 
 Conferr'dst thou, Goddess ! Thou art blind, thou say'st ; 
 
 Enough ! thy blindness shall excuse the deed. 
 
 Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale 
 From this thy scant indulgence! even here, 
 Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are found; 
 Illustrious hints, to moralise my song! 
 This pond'rous heel of perforated hide 
 Compact, with pegs indented, many a row,
 
 90 
 
 Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks), 
 The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown 
 Upbore : on this supported oft, he stretch'd, 
 With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, 
 Flatt'ning the stubborn clod, till cruel time 
 (What will not cruel time), on a wry step, 
 Sever'd the strict cohesion ; when, alas ! 
 He, who could erst, with even, equal pace, 
 Pursue his destin'd vray with symmetry, 
 And some proportion form'd, now, on one side, 
 Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys, 
 Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop! 
 With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on : 
 Thus fares it oft with other than the feet 
 Of humble villager the statesman thus, 
 Up the steep road, where proud ambition leads, 
 Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds 
 His prosp'rous way; nor fears miscarriage foul, 
 While policy prevails, and friends prove true: 
 But that support soon failing, by him left, 
 On whom he most depended, basely left, 
 Betray'd, deserted; from his airy height 
 Head-long he falls; and thro' the rest of life, 
 Drags the dull load of disappointment on. 
 
 Of a youth, who, in a scene like Bath, could 
 produce such a meditation, it might fairly be 
 expected, that he would, 
 
 " In riper life., exempt from public haunt, 
 
 " Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
 
 u Sermons in stones, and good in every thing."
 
 91 
 
 These few words of Shakespear have often ap- 
 peared to me as an absolute portrait of Cowper, 
 in those quiet and cheerful days when he exer- 
 cised, and enjoyed, his rare poetical powers in 
 privacy, at the pleasant village of Weston. But 
 before we contemplate the recluse in that scene, 
 it is the duty of his Biographer to relate some 
 painful incidents, that led him, by extraordinary 
 steps, to his favorite retreat. 
 
 Though extreme diffidence, and a tendency 
 to despond, seemed early to preclude Cowper 
 from all expectation of climbing to the splendid 
 summit of the profession he had chosen; yet, 
 by the interest of his family, he had prospects 
 of emolument in a line of life, that appeared bet- 
 ter suited to the modesty of his nature, and to 
 his moderate ambition. 
 
 In his thirty-first year, he was nominated to 
 the offices of Reading Clerk, and Clerk of the 
 Private Committees, in the House of Lords: a 
 situation the more desirable, as such an esta- 
 blishment might enable him to marry early in 
 life; a measure, to which he was doubly dis- 
 posed, by judgment and inclination. But the 
 peculiarities of his wonderful mind rendered 
 him unable to support the ordinary duties of 
 his new office; for the idea of reading in public 
 proved a source of torture to his tender and ap- 
 prehensive spirit. An expedient was devised
 
 92 
 
 to promote his interest, without wounding his 
 feelings. Resigning his situation of Reading 
 Clerk, he was appointed Clerk of the Journals, 
 in the same house of Parliament. Of his occu- 
 pation in consequence of this new appointment, 
 he speaks, in the following letter, to a lady, who 
 will become known and endeared to my readers, 
 in proportion to the interest they take in the 
 writings of Cowper. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Temple, Aug. 9, i;63. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 Having promised to write 
 to you, I make haste to be as good as my word. 
 I have a pleasure in writing to you at any time, 
 but especially at the present, when my days are 
 spent in reading the Journals, and my nights in 
 dreaming of them. An employment not very 
 agreeable to a head, that has long been habitu- 
 ated to the luxury of choosing its subject, and 
 has been as little employed upon business, as if 
 it had grown upon the shoulders of a much 
 wealthier gentleman. But the numskull pays 
 for it now, and will not presently forget the dis-
 
 93 
 
 cipline it has undergone lately. If I succeed 
 in this doubtful piece of promotion, I shall have 
 at least this satisfaction to reflect upon, that the 
 volumes I write will be treasured up with the 
 utmost care for ages, and will last as long as the 
 English constitution. A duration which ought 
 to satisfy the vanity of any author, who has a 
 spark of love for his country. O! my good 
 Cousin! if I was to open my heart to you, I 
 could show vou strange sights ; nothing I flatter 
 myself that would shock you, but a great deal 
 that would make you wonder. I am of a very 
 singular temper, and very unlike all the men 
 that I have ever conversed with. Certainly I 
 am not an absolute fool ; but I have more weak- 
 ness than the greatest of all the fools I can re- 
 collect at present. In short, if I was as fit for 
 the next world, as I am unfit for this, and God 
 forbid I should speak it in vanity, I would not 
 change conditions with any saint in Christen- 
 dom. 
 
 My destination is settled at last, and I have 
 obtained a furlough. Margate is the word, and 
 what do you think will ensue, Cousin? I know 
 what you expect, but ever since I was born I 
 have been good at disappointing the most na- 
 tural expectations. Many years ago, Cousin, 
 there was a possibility, I might prove a very dif- 
 ferent thing from what I am at present. My
 
 94 
 
 character is now fixed, and rivetted fast upon 
 me; and between friends, is not a very splendid 
 one, or likely to be guilty of much fascination. 
 Adieu, my dear Cousin ! So much as I love 
 you, I wonder how the deuce it has happened I 
 was never in love with you. Thank Heaven 
 that I never was, for at this time I have had a 
 pleasure in writing to you, which in that case I 
 should have forfeited. Let me hear from you, 
 or I shall reap but half the reward that is due to 
 my noble indifference. 
 
 Yours ever, and evermore, 
 
 _ w. a 
 
 It was hoped from the change of his station, 
 that his personal appearance in Parliament might 
 not be required; but a parliamentary dispute 
 made it necessary for him to appear at the Bar 
 of the House of Lords, to entitle himself pub- 
 licly to the office. 
 
 Speaking of this important incident in a 
 sketch, which he once formed himself, of pas- 
 sages in his early life, he expresses what he en- 
 dured at the time in these remarkable words: 
 " They, whose spirits are formed like mine, to 
 v whom a public exhibition of themselves is 
 " mortal poison, may have some idea of the hor- 
 " rors of my situation others can have none."
 
 95 
 
 His terrors on this occasion arose to such 
 an astonishing height, that they utterly over- 
 whelmed his reason: for although he had en- 
 deavoured to prepare himself for his public 
 duty, by attending closely at the office for se- 
 veral months, to examine the parliamentary 
 journals, his application was rendered useless 
 by that excess of diffidence, which made him 
 conceive, that, whatever knowledge he might 
 previously acquire, it would all forsake him at 
 the bar of the house. This distressing appre- 
 hension increased to such a degree, as the time 
 for his appearance approached, that when the 
 day, so anxiously dreaded, arrived, he was un- 
 able to make the experiment. The very friends 
 who called on him for the purpose of attending 
 him to the House of Lords acquiesced in the 
 cruel necessity of his relinquishing the prospect 
 of a station, so severely formidable to a frame 
 of such singular sensibility. 
 
 The conflict between the wishes of his just 
 ambition, and the terrors of diffidence, so en- 
 tirely overwhelmed his health and faculties, that 
 after two learned and benevolent divines (Mr. 
 John Cowper, his brother, and the celebrated 
 Mr. Martin Madan, his first cousin,) had vainly 
 endeavoured to establish a lasting tranquillity 
 in his mind by friendly and religious conversa- 
 tion, it was found necessary to remove him to
 
 96 
 
 St. Alban's. He resided there a considerable 
 time, under the care of that eminent physician, 
 Dr. Cotton, a scholar, and a poet, who added to 
 many accomplishments a peculiar sweetness of 
 manners in very advanced life, when I had the 
 pleasure of a personal acquaintance with him. 
 
 The misfortune of mental derangement is a 
 topic of such awful delicacy, that I consider it 
 as the duty of a biographer rather to sink in 
 tender silence, than to proclaim, with circum- 
 stantial and offensive temerity, the minute par- 
 ticulars of a calamity, to which all human beings 
 are exposed, and perhaps in proportion as they 
 have received from nature those delightful but 
 dangerous gifts, a heart of exquisite tenderness, 
 and a mind of creative energy. 
 
 This is a sight for Pity to peruse, 
 
 Till she resembles faintly what she views ; 
 
 Till Sympathy contracts a kindred pain, 
 
 Pierc'd with the woes, that she laments in vain. 
 
 This, of all maladies, that man infest, 
 
 Claims most compassion, and receives the least. 
 
 But with a soul, that ever felt the sting 
 Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing. 
 
 'Tis not, as heads that never ache, suppose, 
 Forg'ry of fancy, and a dream of woes. 
 Man is a haip, whose cords elude the sight.
 
 97 
 
 feach yielding harmony, dispos'd aright ; 
 
 The screws revers'd (a task, which, if he please, 
 
 God, in a moment, executes with ease;) 
 
 Ten thousand, thousand, strings at once go loose; 
 
 Lost, till he tune them, all their pow'r and use. 
 
 No wounds like those, a wounded spirit feels; 
 
 No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals. 
 
 And thou, sad sufferer, under nameless ill, 
 
 That yields not to the touch of human skill, 
 
 Improve the kind occasion, understand 
 
 A Father's frown, and kiss the chast'ning hand ! 
 
 It is in this awful and instructive light, that 
 Cowper himself teaches us to consider the ca- 
 lamity of which I am now speaking; and of 
 which he, like his illustrious brother of Par- 
 nassus, the younger Tasso, was occasionally a 
 most affecting example. Heaven appears to 
 have given a striking lesson to mankind, to 
 guard both virtue and genius against pride of 
 heart and pride of intellect, by thus suspending 
 the affections and the talents of two most tender 
 and sublime poets, who, in the purity of their 
 lives, and in the splendour of their intellectual 
 powers, will be ever deservedly reckoned among 
 the preeminent of the Earth. 
 
 From December 1 763, to the following July, 
 the mind of Cowper appears to have laboured 
 under the severest sufferings of morbid depres- 
 sion ; but the medical skill of Dr. Cotton, and 
 
 VOL. I. II
 
 98 
 
 the cheerful, benignant manners of that accom- 
 plished physician, gradually succeeded, with 
 the blessing of Heaven, in removing the unde- 
 scribable load of religious despondency, which 
 had clouded the admirable faculties of this in- 
 nocent and upright man. His ideas of religion 
 were changed from the gloom of terror and de- 
 spair to the lustre of comfort and delight. 
 
 This juster and happier view of Evangelical 
 truth is said to have arisen in his mind, while 
 he was reading the third chapter of Saint Paul's 
 Epistle to the Romans. Devout contemplation 
 became more and more dear to his reviving spi- 
 rit; resolving to relinquish all thoughts of a 
 laborious profession, and all intercourse with the 
 busy world, he acquiesced in a plan of settling 
 at Huntingdon, by the advice of his brother, 
 who, as a minister of the Gospel, and a fellow 
 of Bennet college in Cambridge, resided in that 
 university; a situation so near to the place 
 chosen for Cowper's retirement, that it afforded 
 to these affectionate brothers opportunities of 
 easy and frequent intercourse. I regret that all 
 the letters which passed between them have pe- 
 rished ; and the more so, as they sometimes cor- 
 responded in verse. John Cowper was also a 
 poet. He had engaged to execute a translation 
 of Voltaire's Henriade; and in the course of the 
 work requested and obtained the assistance of
 
 99 
 
 William, who translated, as he informed me 
 himself, two entire cantoes of the poem. This 
 fraternal production is said to have appeared in 
 a magazine of the year 1 759- I have discovered 
 a rival, and probably an inferior translation, so 
 published; but the joint work of the poetical 
 brothers has hitherto eluded all my researches. 
 In June 1765, the reviving invalide removed 
 to a private lodging in the town of Huntingdon ; 
 Lut Providence soon introduced him into a fa- 
 mily, which afforded him one of the most sin- 
 gular and valuable friends, that ever watched 
 an afflicted mortal in seasons of overwhelming 
 adversity; that friend, to whom the poet ex- 
 claims, in the commencement of The Task ; 
 
 And witness, dear companion of my walks, 
 Whose arm, this twentieth winter, I perceive 
 Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure, such as love 
 Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth, 
 And well tried virtues, could alone inspire : 
 Witness a joy, that thou hast doubled long ! 
 Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, 
 And that my raptures are not conjur'd up 
 To serve occasions of poetic pomp, 
 But genuine, and art partner of them all. 
 
 These verses would be alone sufficient to 
 make every reader take a lively interest in the 
 lady they describe; but these are far from being 
 the only tribute, which the gratitude of Cowper 
 has paid to the endearing virtues of his female 
 h 2
 
 100 
 
 companion. More poetical memorials of her 
 merit will be found in these volumes, and in 
 verse so exquisite, that it may be questioned, if 
 the most passionate love ever gave rise to poe- 
 try more tender, or more sublime. 
 
 Yet, in this place, it appears proper to ap- 
 prise the reader, that it was not love, in the 
 common acceptation of the word, which in- 
 spired these admirable eulogies. The attach- 
 ment of Cowper to Mrs. Unwin, the Mary of 
 the poet! was an attachment perhaps unparal- 
 lelled. Their domestic union, though not sanc- 
 tioned by the common forms of life, was Sup- 
 ported with perfect innocence, and endeared to 
 them both, by their having struggled together 
 through a series of sorrow. A spectator of sen- 
 sibility, who had contemplated the uncommon 
 tenderness of their attention to the wants and 
 infirmities of each other in the decline of life, 
 might have said of their singular attachment : 
 
 L' Amour fi'a rien de si tendre, 
 Ni 1'Amitie de si doux. 
 
 As a connexion so extraordinary forms a 
 striking feature in the history of the poet, the 
 reader will probably be anxious to investigate 
 its origin and progress. It arose from the fol- 
 lowing little incident : 
 
 The countenance and deportment of Cow-
 
 101 
 
 per, though they indicated his native shyness, 
 had yet very singular powers of attraction. On 
 his first appearance in one of the churches at 
 Huntingdon, he engaged the notice and respect 
 of an amiable young man, William Cawthorne 
 Unwin, then a student at Cambridge, who hav- 
 ing observed, after divine service, that the in- 
 teresting stranger was taking a solitary turn 
 under a row of trees, was irresistibly led to share 
 his walk, and to solicit his acquaintance. 
 
 They were soon pleased with each other, 
 and the intelligent youth, charmed with the ac- 
 quisition of such a friend, was eager to commur 
 nicate the treasure to his parents, who had long 
 resided in Huntingdon. 
 
 Mr. Unwin, the father, had for some years 
 been master of a free-school in the town ; but, 
 as he advanced in life, he quitted that laborious 
 situation, and, settling in a large convenient 
 house in the high-street, contented himself with 
 a few domestic pupils, whom he instructed in 
 classical literature. 
 
 This worthy divine, who was now far ad- 
 vanced in years, had been Lecturer to the two 
 churches at Huntingdon, before he obtained, 
 from his college at Cambridge, the living of 
 Grimston. While he lived in expectation of 
 this preferment, he had attached himself to a 
 young lady of lively talents, and remarkably
 
 102 
 
 fond of reading. This lady, who, in the process 
 of time, and by a series of singular events, be- 
 came the friend and guardian of Cowper, was 
 the daughter of Mr. Cawthorne, a draper, in Ely. 
 She was married to Mr. Unwin on his succeed- 
 ing to the preferment, that he expected from 
 his college, and settled with him on his living 
 of Grimston; but not liking the situation and 
 society of that sequestered scene, she prevailed 
 on her husband to establish himself in Hunting- 
 don, where he was known and respected. 
 
 They had resided there many years, and with 
 their two only children, a son and a daughter 
 (whom I remember to have noticed at Cam- 
 bridge, in the year ] 763, as a youth and a dam- 
 sel of countenances uncommonly pleasing), they 
 formed a cheerful and social family, when the 
 younger Unwin, described by Cowper as 
 
 " A friend, 
 
 Whose worth deserves the warmest lay, 
 
 That ever friendship penn'dj 
 
 presented to his parents the solitary stranger, on 
 whose retirement he had benevolently intruded, 
 and whose welfare he became more and more 
 anxious to promote. An event highly pleasing 
 and comfortable to Cowper soon followed this 
 introduction; he was affectionately solicited by 
 all the Unwins to relinquish his lonely lodging, 
 and become a part of their; family.
 
 103 
 
 I am now arrived at that period in the per- 
 sonal history of my friend, when I am fortu- 
 nately enabled to employ his own descriptive 
 powers in recording the events and characters 
 that particularly interested him, and in display- 
 ing the state of his mind at a remarkable season 
 of his chequered life. I have selected the fol- 
 lowing among the earliest letters of this affec- 
 tionate writer, with which time and chance, 
 with the kindness of his friends and relations, 
 have afforded me the advantage of adorning this 
 work. Those addressed to the Lady Hesketh, 
 from Huntingdon, had not been discovered, when 
 the commencement of this compilation was first 
 printed. Now as her tenderness to her illus- 
 trious, though unhappy, relation, has been ex- 
 emplary, through every period of his changeful 
 life, I take a pleasure in giving a new arrange- 
 ment to the series of his letters, because it as- 
 signs to this lady her proper place of preemi- 
 nence as an early friend of the poet. 
 
 Among his juvenile intimates and correspon- 
 dents, he particularly regarded two gentlemen, 
 who devoted themselves to different branches 
 of the law, the late Lord Thurlow, and Joseph 
 Hill, Esq., whose name appears in the second 
 volume of Cowper's Poems, prefixed to a few 
 verses of exquisite beauty ; a brief epistle, that 
 seems to have more of the genuine ease, spirit,
 
 104 
 
 and moral gayety of Horace, than any original 
 epistle in the English language ! From these two 
 confidential associates of the poet, in his un- 
 clouded years, I expected materials for the dis- 
 play of his early genius; hut in the torrent of 
 busy and splendid life, which bore the first of 
 them to a mighty distance from his less ambi-? 
 tious fellow-student of the Temple, the private 
 letters and verses, that arose from their youthful 
 intimacy, have perished. 
 
 Mr. Hill has kindly favored me with a very 
 copious collection of Cowper's letters to himself, 
 through a long period of time; and although 
 many of them are of a nature not suited to pub- 
 lication, yet many others will illustrate and em- 
 bellish these volumes. The steadiness and in- 
 tegrity of Mr. Hill's regard for a person so much 
 sequestered from his sight, gives him a particu r 
 lar title to be distinguished among those, whom 
 Cowper has honoured by addressing to them 
 his highly interesting and affectionate letters. 
 Many of these, which I shall occasionally intro- 
 duce in the parts of the narrative to which they 
 belong, may tend to confirm a truth, not un- 
 pleasing to the majority of readers, that the 
 temperate zone of moderate fortune, equally re- 
 moved from high and low life, is most favor- 
 able to the permanence of friendship.
 
 105 
 
 LETTER II. 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Huntingdon, June 24, 1/65. 
 DEAR JOF, 
 
 The only recompense I can 
 make you for your kind attention to my affairs, 
 during my illness, is to tell you, that, by the 
 mercy of God, I am restored to perfect health, 
 both of mind and body. This, I believe, will 
 give you pleasure, and I would gladly do any 
 thing from which you could receive it. 
 
 I left St. Alban's on the seventeenth, and ar- 
 rived that day at Cambridge, spent some time 
 there with my brother, and came hither on the 
 twenty-second. I have a lodging that puts me 
 continually in mind of our summer excursions* 
 we have had many worse, and except the size 
 of it (which however is sufficient for a single 
 man) but few better. I am not quite alone, hav- 
 ing brought a servant with me from St. Alban's, 
 who is the very mirror of fidelity and affection 
 for his master. And whereas the Turkish Spy 
 says, he kept no servant, because he would not 
 have an enemy in his house, I hired mine, be- 
 cause I would have a friend. Men do not usually 
 bestow these encomiums on their lackeys, nor
 
 106 
 
 do they usually deserve them, but I have had 
 experience of mine, both in sickness and in 
 health, and never saw his fellow. 
 
 The river Ouse, I forget how they spell it, 
 is the most agreeable circumstance in this part 
 of the world; at this town, it is I believe as wide 
 as the Thames at Windsor; nor does the silver 
 Thames better deserve that epithet, nor has it 
 more flowers upon its banks, these being attri- 
 butes, which, in strict truth, belong to neither. 
 Fluellin would say, they are as like as my fingers 
 to my fingers, and there is salmon in both. It 
 is a noble stream to bathe in, and I shall make 
 that use of it three times a week, having intro- 
 duced myself to it for the first time this morn- 
 ing. 
 
 I beg you will remember me to all my friends, 
 which is a task will cost you no great pains to 
 execute particularly remember me to those of 
 your own house, and believe me 
 
 Your very affectionate 
 
 W. C.
 
 107 
 LETTER III. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Huntingdon, July I, 1?65., 
 MY DEAR LADY HESKETH, 
 
 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 re- 
 store me to the use of my reason, what have I 
 not enjoyed? You know, by experience, 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, which I think it impossible to receive 
 without the most consummate gratitude. Ter- 
 rible 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
 
 108 
 
 I am sure I shall continue to be, as I am at pre- 
 sent, really happy. 
 
 I write thus to you, that you may not think 
 me a forlorn and wretched creature; which you 
 might be apt to do, considering my very distant 
 removal from every friend I have in the world 
 a circumstance which, before this event befel 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 be- 
 lieves himself the object of it, is more than suf- 
 ficient 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, be- 
 cause I have told you the foundation on which 
 it is built. What I have written would appear 
 like enthusiasm to many, for we are apt to give 
 that name to every warm affection 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,
 
 109 
 
 and believe that I am obliged to you both for 
 inquiring after me at St. Alban's. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 W.C. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Huntingdon, July 4, 1/65. 
 
 Being just emerged from the 
 Ouse, I sit down to thank you, my dear Cousin, 
 for your friendly and comfortable 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 fol- 
 lowed soon after, but at the time it must have 
 been inexplicable. The uproar within was even 
 then begun, and my 9ilence was only the sulki- 
 ness of a thunderstorm before it opens. I am 
 glad, however, that the oniy 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 Chris- 
 tians! and how impossible is it, when all human
 
 110 
 
 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 re- 
 flect, 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 pre- 
 mises. He who can ascribe an amendment of 
 life and manners, and a reformation of the heart 
 itself, to madness, is guilty of an absurdity, that 
 in any other case would fasten the imputation 
 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 wisest 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
 
 Ill 
 
 under the influence of some other motive. And 
 it is such seeming Christians, such pretending 
 believers, that do most mischief to the cause, 
 and furnish the strongest arguments to support 
 the infidelity of its enemies : unless professions 
 and conduct go together, the man's life is a lie, 
 and the validity of what he professes itself is 
 called in question. The difference between a 
 Christian and an Unbeliever would be so strik- 
 ing, if the treacherous allies of the Church 
 would go over at once to the other side, that 
 I am satisfied religion would be no loser by the 
 bargain. 
 
 I reckon it one instance of the Providence 
 that has attended me throughout this whole 
 event, that instead of being delivered into the 
 hands of one of the London physicians, who 
 were so much nearer that 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 attended 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 pur- 
 pose. My eagerness and anxiety, to settle my 
 opinions upon that long neglected point, made 
 it necessary, that while my mind was yet \wak,
 
 112 
 
 and my spirits uncertain, I should have some 
 assistance. The doctor was as ready to admi- 
 nister 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, and a symptom of remaining madness ! 
 But if it were so, my friend was as mad as my- 
 self, and it is well for me that he was so. 
 
 My dear Cousin, you know not half the de- 
 liverances I have received; my Brother is the 
 only one in the family, who does. My reco- 
 very 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, 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Huntingdon, July 5, 1/65. 
 MY DEAR LADY HESKETH, 
 
 My pen runs so fast you will begin 
 to wish you had not put it in motion, but you
 
 113 
 
 must consider we have not met, even by letter, 
 almost these two years, which will account, in 
 some measure, for my pestering you in this man- 
 ner; besides, my last was no answer to yours, 
 and therefore I consider myself as still in your 
 debt. To say truth, I have this long time pro- 
 mised myself a correspondence with you as one 
 of my principal pleasures. 
 
 I should have written to you from St. Alban's 
 long since, but was willing to perform quaran- 
 tine first, both for my own sake, and because I 
 thought my letters would be more satisfactory 
 to you from any other quarter. You will per- 
 ceive I allowed myself a very sufficient time for 
 the purpose, for I date my recovery from the 
 twenty-fifth of last July, having been ill seven 
 months, and well twelve months. It was on that 
 day my Brother came to see me; I was far from 
 well when he came in; yet 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. But to the pre- 
 sent purpose. 
 
 As far as I am acquainted with this place^ I 
 like it extremely. Mr. Hodgson, the minister 
 of the parish, made me a visit the day before 
 yesterday. He is very sensible, a good preacher, 
 and conscientious in the discharge of his duty. 
 vol. i. j
 
 114 
 
 He is very well known to Doctor Newton, bishop 
 of Bristol, the author of the treatise on the Pro- 
 phecies, one of our best bishops, and who has 
 written the most demonstrative proof of the 
 truth of Christianity in my mind, that ever was 
 published. 
 
 There is a village called Hertford, about a 
 mile and a half from hence. The church there 
 is very prettily situated upon a rising ground, 
 so close to the river, that it washes the wall of 
 the churchyard. I found an epitaph there the 
 other morning, the two first lines of which be- 
 ing better than any thing else I saw there, I 
 made shift to remember. It is by a widow on 
 her husband. 
 
 " Thou wast too good to live on Earth with me, 
 " And I not good enough to die with thee." 
 
 The distance of this place from Cambridge 
 is the worst circumstance belonging to it. My 
 brother and I are fifteen miles asunder, which, 
 considering that I came hither for the sake of 
 being near him, is rather too much. I wish that 
 young man was better known in the family. He 
 has as many good qualities, as his nearest kin- 
 dred could wish to find in him. 
 
 As Mr. Quin very roundly expressed himself 
 upon some such occasion, " here is very plenti- 
 ful accommodation, and great happiness of pro-
 
 115 
 
 vision." So that if I starve, it must be through 
 forgetfulness, rather than scarcity. 
 
 Fare thee well, my good and dear Cousin. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 July 12, 176s. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 You are very good to me, 
 and if you will only continue to write at such 
 intervals as you find convenient, I shall receive 
 all that pleasure, which I proposed myself from 
 our correspondence. I desire no more, than 
 that you would never drop me for any length of 
 time together, for I shall then think you only 
 write because something happened to put you 
 in mind of me, or for some other reason equally 
 mortifying. I am not however so unreason- 
 able as to expect you should perforin this act of 
 friendship so frequently as myself, for you live 
 in a world swarming with engagements, and my 
 hours are almost all my own. You must every 
 day be employed in doing what is expected 
 from you by a thousand others, and I have no- 
 1 2
 
 116 
 
 thing to do but what is most agreeable to my- 
 self. 
 
 Our mentioning Newton's treatise on the 
 Prophecies brings to my mind an anecdote of 
 Dr. Young, who, you know, died lately at Wel- 
 wyn. Dr. Cotton, who was intimate with him, 
 paid him a visit about a fortnight before he 
 was seized with his last illness. The old man 
 was then in perfect health ; the antiquity of his 
 person, the gravity of his utterance, and the 
 earnestness with which he discoursed about re- 
 ligion, gave him, in the doctor's eye, the ap- 
 pearance of a prophet. They had been deliver- 
 ing their sentiments upon this book of Newton, 
 when Young closed the conference thus; " My 
 " friend, there are two considerations upon which 
 " my faith in Christ is built as upon a rock: The 
 " fall of man, the redemption of man, and the re- 
 " surrection of man, the three cardinal articles 
 " of our religion, are such as human ingenuity 
 " could never have invented, therefore they must 
 " be divine; the other argument is this If the 
 " Prophecies have been fulfilled (of which there 
 " is abundant demonstration), the Scripture must 
 " be the word of God; and, if the Scripture is 
 " the word of God, Christianity must be true." 
 
 This treatise on the Prophecies serves a dou- 
 ble purpose, it not only proves the truth of reli- 
 gion, in a manner that never has been, nor ever
 
 1.17 
 
 can be controverted, but it proves likewise, that 
 the Roman Catholic is the apostate and Anti- 
 christian church, so frequently foretold both in 
 the Old and New Testaments. Indeed, so fatally 
 connected is the refutation of Popery with the 
 truth of Christianity, when the latter is evinced 
 by the completion of the Prophecies, that in pro- 
 portion as light is thrown upon the one, the de- 
 formities and errors of the other are more plainly 
 exhibited. But I leave you to the book itself; 
 there are parts of it which may possibly afford 
 you less entertainment than the rest, because 
 you have never been a schoolboy; but in the 
 main it is so interesting, and you are so fond of 
 that which is so, that I am sure you will like it. 
 
 My dear Cousin, how happy am I in having a 
 friend, to whom I can open my heart upon these 
 subjects! I have many intimates in the world, 
 and have had many more than I shall have here- 
 after, to whom a long letter, upon these most im- 
 portant articles, would appear tiresome at least, 
 if not impertinent. But I am not afraid of meet- 
 ing with that reception from you, who have ne- 
 ver yet made it your interest, that there should 
 be no truth in the word of God. May this ever- 
 lasting truth be your comfort while you live, and 
 attend you with peace and joy in your last mo- 
 ments ! I love you too well not to make this a 
 part of my prayers, and when I remember my
 
 118 
 
 friends on these occasions, there is no likelihood 
 that you can be forgotten. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 W. C 
 
 P. S. Cambridge. I add this postscript at 
 my brother's rooms. He desires to be affection- 
 ately remembered to you, and if you are in town 
 about a fortnight hence, when he proposes to be 
 there himself, will take a breakfast with you. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Huntingdon, August \, 1/65. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 If I was to measure h your 
 obligation to write, by my own desire to hear 
 from you, I should call you an idle correspond- 
 ent, if a post went by without bringing me a 
 letter, but I am not so unreasonable; on the 
 contrary, I think myself very happy in hearing 
 from you upon your own terms, as you find most 
 convenient. Your short history of my family is 
 a very acceptable part of your letter ; if they 
 really interest themselves in my welfare, it is a 
 mark of their great charity for one, who has 
 been a disappointment and a vexation to them,
 
 119 
 
 ever since he has been of consequence to be 
 either. My friend the Major's behaviour to me, 
 after all he suffered by my abandoning his in- 
 terest and my own in so miserable a manner, is 
 a noble instance of generosity, and true great- 
 ness of mind : and, indeed, I know no man in 
 whom those qualities are more conspicuous; one 
 need only furnish him with an opportunity to 
 display them, and they are always ready to show 
 themselves in his words and actions, and even 
 in his countenance, at a moment's warning- I 
 have great reason to be thankful I have lost 
 none of my acquaintance, but those whom I 
 determined not to keep. I am sorry this class 
 is so numerous. What would I not give, that 
 every friend I have in the world were not almost, 
 but altogether Christians. My dear Cousin, I 
 am half afraid to talk in this style, lest I should 
 seem to indulge a censorious humour, instead 
 of hoping, as I ought, the best for all men. But 
 what can be said against ocular proof? and what 
 is hope, when it is built upon presumption? To 
 use the most holy name in the universe for no 
 purpose, or a bad one, contrary to his own ex- 
 press commandment; to pass the day, and the 
 succeeding days, weeks, and months, and years, 
 without one act of private devotion, one con- 
 fession of our sins, or one thanksgiving for the 
 numberless blessings we enjoy ; to hear the word
 
 120 
 
 of God in public, with a distracted attention, or 
 with none at all; to absent ourselves volunta- 
 rily from the blessed Communion, and to live 
 in the total neglect of it, though our Saviour has 
 charged it upon us with an express injunction, 
 are the common and ordinary liberties, which 
 the generality of professors allow themselves: 
 and what is this, but to live without God in the 
 world? Many causes may be assigned for this 
 Antichristian spirit, so prevalent among Chris- 
 tians, but one of the principal I take to be their 
 utter forgetfulness, that they have the word of 
 God in their possession. 
 
 My friend, Sir William Russel, was distantly 
 related to a very accomplished man, who, though 
 he never believed the Gospel, admired the Scrip- 
 tures as the sublimest compositions in the world, 
 and read them often. I have been intimate my- 
 self with a man of fine taste, who has confessed 
 to me, that, though he could not subscribe to 
 the truth of Christianity itself, yet he never 
 could read St. Luke's account of our Saviour's 
 appearance to the two disciples going to Em- 
 maus, without being wonderfully affected by it; 
 and he thought, that, if the stamp of divinity 
 was any where to be found in Scripture, it was 
 strongly marked, and visibly impressed upon 
 that passage. If these men, whose hearts were 
 chilled with the darkness of infidelity, could find
 
 121 
 
 such charms in the mere style of the Scripture, 
 what must they find there, whose eye penetrates 
 deeper than the letter, and who firmly believe 
 themselves interested in all the invaluable pri- 
 vileges of the Gospel! " He that believeth on 
 " me is passed from death unto life," though it 
 be as plain a sentence as words can form, has 
 more beauties in it for such a person, than all 
 the labours antiquity can boast of. If my poor 
 man of taste, whom I have just mentioned, had 
 searched a little further, he might have found 
 other parts of the sacred history as strongly 
 marked with the characters of divinity as that 
 he mentioned. The parable of the prodigal son, 
 the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented; 
 our Saviour's speech to his disciples, with which 
 he closes his earthly ministration, full of the 
 sublimest dignity, and tenderest affection, sur- 
 pass every thing that I ever read, and, like the 
 spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly 
 to the heart. If the Scripture did not disdain 
 all affectation of ornament, one should call these, 
 and such as these, the ornamental parts of it; 
 but the matter of it is that, upon which it prin- 
 cipally stakes its credit with us, and the style, 
 however excellent and peculiar to itself, is only 
 one of those many external evidences, by which 
 it recommends itself to our belief. 
 : I shall be very much obliged to you for the
 
 122 
 
 book you mention ; you could not have sent me 
 
 any thing that would have been more welcome, 
 
 unless you had sent me your own meditations 
 
 instead of them. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Huntingdon, August 17, 1765. 
 
 You told me, my dear Cousin, 
 that I need not fear writing too often, and you 
 perceive I take you at your word. At present, 
 however, I shall do little more than thank you 
 for your Meditations, which I admire exceed- 
 ingly : the author of them manifestly loved the 
 truth with an undissembled affection, had made 
 great progress in the knowledge of it, and ex- 
 perienced all the happiness, that naturally re- 
 sults from that noblest of all attainments. There 
 is one circumstance, which he gives us frequent 
 occasion to observe in him, which I believe will 
 ever be found in the philosophy of every true 
 Christian. I mean, the eminent rank which he 
 assigns to faith among the virtues, as the source 
 and parent of them all. There is nothing more
 
 123 
 
 infallibly true than this, and doubtless it is with 
 a view to the purifying and sanctifying nature 
 of a true faith, that our Saviour says, " He that 
 " believeth in me hath everlasting life," with 
 many other expressions to the same purpose. 
 Considered in this light, no wonder it has the 
 power of salvation ascribed to it! Considered in 
 any other, we must suppose it to operate like an 
 oriental talisman, if it obtains for us the least 
 advantage; which is an affront to him, who in- 
 sists upon our having it, and will on no other 
 terms admit us to his favour. I mention this 
 distinguishing article in his reflections the ra- 
 ther, because it serves for a solid foundation to 
 the distinction I made in my last, between the 
 specious professor, and the true believer, be- 
 tween him whose faith is his sunday-suit, and 
 him who never puts it off at all a distinction I 
 am a little fearful sometimes of making, because 
 it is a heavy stroke upon the practice of more 
 than half the Christians in the world. 
 
 My dear Cousin, I told you I read the book 
 with great pleasure, which may be accounted 
 for from its own merit, but perhaps it pleased 
 me the more, because you had travelled the 
 same road before me. You know there is such 
 a pleasure as this, which would want great ex- 
 planation to some folks, being perhaps a mys- 
 tery to those, whose hearts are a mere muscle.
 
 124 
 
 and serve only for the purposes of an even cir- 
 culation. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 TO LAD7 HESKETH. 
 
 Sept. 4, 1 765. 
 
 Though I have some very agree- 
 able acquaintance at Huntingdon, my dear Cou- 
 sin, none are so agreeable as the arrival of your 
 letters. I thank you for that, which I have just 
 received from Droxford; and particularly for 
 that part of it, where you give me an unlimited 
 liberty upon the subject, I have already so often 
 written upon. Whatever interests us deeply, as 
 naturally flows into the pen, as it does from the 
 lips, when every restraint is taken away, and we 
 meet with a friend indulgent enough to attend 
 to us. How many, in all that variety of cha- 
 racters, with whom I am acquainted, could I 
 lind, after the strictest search, to whom I could 
 write, as I do to you? I hope the number will 
 increase. I am sure it cannot easily be dimi- 
 nished. Poor ! I have heard the whole 
 
 of bis history, and can only lament, what I am 
 sure I can make no apology for. Two of my 
 friends have been cut off during my illness, in
 
 125 
 
 the midst of such a life, as it is frightful to re- 
 flect upon ; and here am I, in better health and 
 spirits, than I can almost remember to have en- 
 joyed before, after having spent months in the 
 apprehension of instant death. How mysterious 
 are the ways of Providence ! Why did I receive 
 grace and mercy? Why was I preserved, af- 
 flicted for my good, received, as I trust, into 
 favor, and blessed with the greatest happiness I 
 can ever know, or hope for, in this life, while 
 these were overtaken by the great arrest, un- 
 awakened, unrepenting, and every way unpre- 
 pared for it? His infinite wisdom, to whose in- 
 finite mercy I owe it all, can solve these ques- 
 tions, and none beside him. If a free-thinker, 
 as many a man miscalls himself, could be brought 
 to give a serious answer to them, he would cer- 
 tainly say " Without doubt, Sir, you was in 
 " great danger, you had a narrow escape, a 
 " most fortunate one indeed." How excessively 
 foolish, as well as shocking! As if life depended 
 upon luck, and all that we are, or can be, all 
 that we have or hope for, could possibly be 
 referred to accident. Yet to this freedom of 
 thought it is owing, that he, who, as our Sa- 
 viour tells us, is thoroughly apprised of the 
 death of the meanest of his creatures, is sup- 
 posed to leave those, whom he has made in his 
 own image, to the mercy of chance; and to this
 
 126 
 
 therefore it is likewise owing, that the correction, 
 which our heavenly Father bestows upon us, that 
 we may be fitted to receive his blessing, is so 
 often disappointed of its benevolent intention, 
 and that men despise the chastening of the Al- 
 mighty. Fevers and all diseases are accidents; 
 and long life, recovery at least from sickness, is 
 the gift of the physician. No man can be a 
 greater friend to the use of means upon these 
 occasions than myself, for it were presumption 
 and enthusiasm to neglect them. God has en- 
 dued them with salutary properties on purpose 
 that we might avail ourselves of them, other- 
 wise that part of his creation were in vain. But 
 to impute our recovery to the medicine, and to 
 carry our views no further, is to rob God of his 
 honour, and is saying in effect, that he has parted 
 with the keys of life and death, and, by giving 
 to a drug the power to heal us, has placed our 
 lives out of his own reach. He that thinks thus, 
 may as well fall upon his knees at once, and re- 
 turn thanks to the medicine that cured him, for 
 it was certainly more immediately instrumental 
 in his recovery, than either the apothecary or 
 the doctor. My dear Cousin, a firm persuasion 
 of the superintendence of Providence over all 
 our concerns is absolutely necessary to our hap- 
 piness. Without it, we cannot be said to be- 
 lieve in the Scripture, or practise any thing like
 
 127 
 
 resignation to his will. If I am convinced, that 
 no affliction can befal me, without the permis- 
 sion of God, I am convinced likewise, that he 
 sees, and knows, that I am afflicted; believing 
 this, I must, in the same degree, believe, that if 
 I pray to him for deliverance, he hears me; I 
 must needs know likewise, with equal assurance, 
 that if he hears, he will also deliver me, if that 
 will upon the whole be most conducive to my 
 happiness; and if he does not deliver me, I may 
 be well assured, that he has none but the most 
 benevolent intention in declining it. He made 
 us, not because we could add to his happiness, 
 which was always perfect, but that we might be 
 happy ourselves ; and will he not in all his dis- 
 pensations towards us, even in the minutest, 
 consult that end for which he made us? To sup- 
 pose the contrary, is (which we are not always 
 aware of) affronting every one of his attributes ; 
 and at the same time the certain consequence of 
 disbelieving his care for us is, that we renounce 
 utterly our dependence upon him. In this view 
 it will appear plainly, that the line of duty is 
 not stretched too tight, when we are told, that 
 we ought to accept every thing at his hands as 
 a blessing, and to be thankful even while we 
 smart under the rod of iron, with which he 
 sometimes rules us. Without this persuasion, 
 every blessing, however we may think ourselves
 
 128 
 
 happy in it, loses its greatest recommendation; 
 and every affliction is intolerable. Death itself 
 must be welcome to him who has this faith, and 
 he who has it not, must aim at it, if he is not a 
 madman. You cannot think how glad I am to 
 hear, you are going to commence lady, and mis- 
 tress of Freeman tie*. I know it well, and could 
 go to it from Southampton blindfold. You are 
 kind to invite me to it, and I shall be so kind to 
 myself as to accept the invitation, though I 
 should not, for a slight consideration, be pre- 
 vailed upon to quit my beloved retirement at 
 Huntingdon. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 W.C 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Huntingdon, Sept. 14, 1765. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 The longer I live here, the 
 better I like the place, and the people who be- 
 long 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 ac- 
 quaintance I made here is with the race of the 
 
 * Freemantle, a villa near Southampton.
 
 129 
 
 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 recommends itself to us in the form 
 of wisdom, and sets every thing, 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 no- 
 thing 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 cler- 
 gyman, and the son is designed 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 brew- 
 ing, and doubtless brewed by his own hands. 
 Another of my acquaintance is Mr. , a thin, 
 
 VOL. I. k
 
 130 
 
 tall, old man, and as good as he is thin. He 
 drinks nothing but water, and eats no flesh; 
 partly (I believe) from a religious scruple (for 
 he is very religious), 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, which is reckoned 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 great regularity, 
 for he is the most perfect time-piece in the 
 world. 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 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 provi- 
 dence, out of the reach of any great evil, and 
 the influence of bad example, have, from their
 
 131 
 
 very infancy, been partakers of the grace of his 
 holy Spirit, in such 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 day, 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 faith- 
 ful servants cannot but prevail ! 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Huntingdon, Oct. 10, 1765. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 I should grumble at your 
 long silence, if I did not know, that one may 
 love one's friends very well, though one is not 
 always in a humour to write to them. Besides I 
 have the satisfaction of being perfectly sure, 
 that you have at least twenty times recollected 
 the debt you owe me, and as often resolved 
 to pay it: and perhaps, while you remain in- 
 debted to me, you think of me twice as often as 
 you would do, if the account was clear. These 
 are the reflections, with which I comfort myself 
 under the affliction of not hearing from you; 
 k 2
 
 132 
 
 my temper does not incline me to jealousy, and 
 if it did, I should set all right, by having re- 
 course to what I have already received from 
 you. 
 
 I thank God for your friendship, and for 
 every friend I have; for all the pleasing cir- 
 cumstances here, for my health of body, and 
 perfect serenity of mind. To recollect the past, 
 and compare it with the present, is all I have 
 need of, to fill me with gratitude; and to be 
 grateful is to be happy. Not that I think my- 
 self sufficiently thankful, or that I shall ever be 
 so in this life. The warmest heart perhaps only 
 feels by fits, and is often as insensible as the 
 coldest. This, at least, is frequently the case 
 with mine, and oftener than it should be. But 
 the mercy, that can forgive iniquity, will never 
 be severe to mark our frailties; to that mercy, 
 my dear Cousin, I commend you, with earnest 
 wishes for your welfare, and remain your ever 
 
 affectionate, 
 
 W. C,
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Huntingdon, Oct. 18, 1765. 
 
 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 tem- 
 pest 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 pleasure you find, in being once 
 more blown to Droxford. I know enough of 
 Miss Morley to send her my compliments; to 
 which, if I had never seen her, her affection for 
 you would sufficiently entitle her. If I ne- 
 glected 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 
 should be the most delightful creature in the 
 universe. I am glad you think so favourably 
 of my Huntingdon acquaintance ; they are in- 
 deed a nice set of folks, and suit me exactly. 
 I should have been more particular in my ac- 
 count of Miss Unwin, if I had had materials 
 for a minute description. She is about eighteen
 
 134 
 
 years of age, rather handsome and genteel. In 
 her Mother's company she says little ; not be- 
 cause 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 parts 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 tite-a-tete, to distinguish the per- 
 sons of the drama from the chairs they sit on : 
 accordingly she talked a great deal, and ex- 
 tremely 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 cheerfullest 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
 
 135 
 
 without being the better for her company. I 
 am treated in the family, as if I was a near rela- 
 tion; 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 awk- 
 wardness will wear off hereafter. It was my 
 earnest request, 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 Mrs. Unwin. How happy it is to 
 believe with a steadfast assurance, that our pe- 
 titions are heard, even while we are making 
 them and how delightful to meet with a proof 
 of it, in the effectual and actual grant of them! 
 Surely it is a gracious finishing, given to those 
 means, which the Almighty has been pleased to 
 make use of, for my conversion. After having 
 been deservedly rendered 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 car- 
 ries with it the stamp and visible superscription 
 of divine bounty a grace unlimited as unde- 
 served; and, like its glorious Author, free in its 
 course, and blessed in its operation !
 
 136 
 
 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 breath we expect to draw. 
 Heaven and Earth have their destined periods ; 
 ten thousand worlds will vanish at the consum- 
 mation of all things ; but the word of God stand- 
 eth fast; and they, who trust in him, shall never 
 be confounded, 
 
 My love to all who inquire after me. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 \V. C, 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 TO MAJOR COWPER. 
 
 Huntingdon, Oct. 18, 1765. 
 MY DEAR MAJOR, 
 
 I have neither lost the use 
 of my fingers nor my memory, though my un- 
 accountable silence might incline you to sus- 
 pect, that I had lost both. The history of those 
 things which have, from time to time, prevented 
 my scribbling, would not only be insipid, but 
 extremely voluminous; for which reasons, they 
 will not make their appearance at present, nor
 
 137 
 
 probably at any time hereafter. If my neglect- 
 ing to write to you were a proof, that I had 
 never thought of you, and that had been really 
 the case, five shillings apiece would have been 
 much too little to give for the sight of such a 
 monster! but I am no such monster, nor do I 
 perceive in myself the least tendency to such a 
 transformation. You may recollect, that I had 
 but very uncomfortable expectations of the ac- 
 commodations, I should meet with at Hunting- 
 don. How much better is it, to take our lot, 
 where it shall please Providence to cast it, with- 
 out anxiety ! Had I chosen for myself, it is im- 
 possible I could have fixed upon a place so agree- 
 able to me in all respects. I so much dreaded 
 the thought of having a new acquaintance to 
 make, with no other recommendation than that 
 of being a perfect stranger, that I heartily wish- 
 ed no creature here might take the least notice 
 of me. Instead of which, in about two months 
 after my arrival, I became known to all the vi- 
 sitable people here, and do verily think it the 
 most agreeable neighbourhood I ever saw. 
 
 Here are three families, who have received 
 me with the utmost civility; and two, in parti- 
 cular, have treated me with as much cordiality, 
 as if their pedigree and mine had grown upon 
 the same sheep-skin. Besides these, there are 
 three or four single men, who suit my temper to
 
 138 
 
 a hair. The town is one of the neatest in Eng- 
 land ; the country is fine, for several miles about 
 it; and the roads, which are all turnpike, and 
 strike out four or five different ways, are per- 
 fectly good all the year round. I mention this 
 latter circumstance, chiefly because my distance 
 from Cambridge has made a horseman of me at 
 last, or at least is likely to do so. My brother 
 and I meet every week, by an alternate recipro- 
 cation of intercourse, as Sam Johnson would 
 express it; sometimes I get a lift in a neigh- 
 bour's chaise, but generally ride. As to my own 
 personal condition, I am much happier than the 
 day is long, and sunshine and candlelight alike 
 see me perfectly contented. I get books in abun- 
 dance, as much company as I choose, a deal of 
 comfortable leisure, and enjoy better health, I 
 think, than for many years past. What is there 
 wanting to make me happy? Nothing, if I can 
 but be as thankful as I ought ; and I trust, that 
 He, who has bestowed so many blessings upon 
 me, will give me gratitude to crown them all. 
 I beg you will give my love to my dear Cousin 
 Maria, and to every body at the Park. If Mrs. 
 Maitland is with you, as I suspect by a passage 
 in Lady Hesketh's letter to me, pray remember 
 me to her very affectionately. And believe me, 
 
 my dear friend, ever yours, 
 
 W. C.
 
 139 
 LETTER XIV 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 October 15, 1765. 
 DEAR JOE, 
 
 I am afraid the month of Oc- 
 tober has proved rather unfavorable to the belle 
 assemble at Southampton ; high winds and con- 
 tinual rains being bitter enemies to that agree- 
 able 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 acquainted with, 
 when you were here. Their name is Unwin 
 the most agreeable people imaginable; quite so- 
 ciable, 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
 
 140 
 
 than a duchess. The son, who belongs to Cam- 
 bridge, is a most amiable young man, and the 
 daughter quite of a piece with the rest of the 
 family. They see but little company, which 
 suits me exactly ; go when I will, 1 find 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 all better for. You re- 
 member Rousseau's description of an English 
 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 liked Huntingdon so well before I knew 
 them, and am apt to think, I should find every 
 place disagreeable, that had not an Unwin be- 
 longing to it. 
 
 This incident convinces me of the truth of 
 an observation 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 are 
 guilty of a very uncharitable censure upon the 
 rest of the world, and of a narrowness of think- 
 ing disgraceful to ourselves. Wapping and Red- 
 riff may contain some of the most amiable per- 
 sons living, and such as one would go to Wapping 
 and Redriff to make acquaintance with. You 
 remember Mr. Gray's stanza
 
 141 
 
 '' Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 " The deep un fathom' d caves of ocean bear: 
 " Full many a rose is born to blush unseen, 
 " And waste its fragrance on the desert air." 
 
 Yours, dear Joe, 
 
 W.C. 
 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 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 situa- 
 tion ; 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 solitude, as seemed to make it an act of 
 particular charity to write to me. I bless God 
 for it, I was happy even then ; solitude has no- 
 thing gloomy in it, if the soul points upwards. 
 St. Paul tells his Hebrew converts, " Ye are 
 come (already come) to Mount Sion, to an in- 
 numerable company of angels, to the general 
 assembly of the first born, which are written in 
 Heaven, and to Jesus the mediator of the new 
 covenant." When this is the case, as surely it 
 was with them, or the Spirit of Truth had never
 
 142 
 
 spoken it, there is an end of the melancholy 
 and dulness of life at once. You will not sus- 
 pect me, my dear Cousin, of a design to under- 
 stand 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 Al- 
 mighty 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 passages I 
 have cited, but in many others? If we have no 
 communion with God here, surely we can ex- 
 pect none hereafter. A faith that does not place 
 our conversation in Heaven ; that does not warm 
 the heart, and purify it too; that does not, in 
 short, govern our thought, word, and deed, is 
 no faith, nor will it obtain for us any spiritual 
 blessing here, or hereafter. Let us see there- 
 fore, my dear Cousin, that we do not deceive
 
 143 
 
 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 be- 
 hind our backs. But it is not the world, which 
 tries the heart; that is the prerogative of God 
 alone. My dear Cousin! I have often prayed 
 for you behind your back, and now I pray for 
 you to your face. There 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 every thing 
 that may promote and secure your everlasting 
 welfare. 
 
 I am obliged to Mrs. Cowper for the book, 
 which, you perceive, arrived safe. I am wil- 
 ling 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 are 
 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 regard to me, who, before the affliction 
 that befel me, were ready enough to converse 
 
 with mc. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 W.C.
 
 144 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 I am much obliged to you 
 for Pearsall's Meditations, especially as it fur- 
 nishes me with an occasion of writing to you, 
 which is all I have waited for. My friends must 
 excuse me, if I write to none but those, who 
 lay it fairly in my way to do so. The inference 
 I 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 con- 
 ducted me to this place. The lady, in whose 
 house I live, is so excellent a person, and re- 
 gards me with a friendship so truly Christian, 
 that I could almost fancy my own Mother re- 
 stored to life again, to compensate to me for all 
 the friends I have lost, and all my connexions 
 broken. She has a son at Cambridge, in all 
 respects worthy of such a mother, the most 
 amiable young man I ever knew. His natural 
 and acquired 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
 
 145 
 
 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 knovv^ how to value. 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, hav- 
 ing turned many to righteousness, shall shine 
 hereafter as the stars for ever and ever." 
 
 So much for the state of my heart : as to my 
 spirits, I am cheerful and happy, and having 
 peace with God, have peace within myself. For 
 the continuance of this blessing, I trust to Him, 
 -who gives it: and they, who trust in Him, shall 
 never be confounded. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 W.C. 
 
 Huntingdon, 
 
 at the Rev. Mr. Unwin's, 
 
 March 11, 1/66. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 146 
 LETTER XVII. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 April 4, 1766. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 I agree with you, that let- 
 ters 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, how- 
 ever, all that I said, in my last, upon this sub- 
 ject; having reason to suspect, that it proceeded 
 from a principle, which I would 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 resent- 
 ment is such an enemy to it, that I hope I shall 
 never give quarter to any thing that appears in 
 the shape of sullenness, or self-eonscquence, 
 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, and 
 to plead them against me in judgment, where 
 should I hide my guilty head in the day of re-
 
 147 
 
 compcnse? I will pray, therefore, for blessings 
 upon my friends, though they cease to be so; 
 and upon my enemies, though they continue 
 such. The deceitfulness of the natural heart is 
 inconceivable. I know well, that I passed among 
 my friends for a person at least religiously in- 
 clined, if not actually religious; and what is 
 more wonderful, I thought myself a Christian, 
 when I had no faith in Christ, 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 Al- 
 mighty, in great mercy, to set all my misdeeds 
 before me. At length, the storm being past, a 
 quiet and peaceful serenity of soul succeeded, 
 such as ever attends the gift of living faith in 
 the all-sufficient atonement, and the sweet sense 
 of mercy and pardon purchased by the blood 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 Chris- 
 tian, in the sterling import of the appellation. 
 
 l2
 
 148 
 
 This is, however, but a very summary account 
 of the matter; neither would a letter contain 
 the astonishing particulars 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 remember, and re- 
 cord them, with a gratitude better suited to the 
 subject. 
 
 Yours, my dear Cousin, affectionately, 
 
 W. C 
 
 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 April 17, 1766. 
 MY DEAR COUSIX, 
 
 As in matters unattainable 
 by reason, and unrevealed in the Scripture, it is 
 impossible to argue at all; so, in matters con- 
 cerning which reason can only give a probable 
 guess, and the Scripture has made no explicit 
 discovery, it is, though not impossible to argue 
 at all, yet impossible to argue to any certain 
 conclusion. This seems to me to be the very 
 
 case with the point in question reason is 
 
 able to form many plausible conjectures con- 
 cerning the possibility of our knowing each
 
 149 
 
 other in a future state, and the Scripture has, 
 here and there, favoured us with an expression, 
 that looks at least like a slight intimation of it; 
 but because a conjecture can never amount to 
 a proof, and a slight intimation cannot be con- 
 strued into a positive assertion ; therefore, I 
 think, we can never come to any absolute con- 
 clusion upon the subject. We may, indeed, rea- 
 son about the plausibility of our conjectures; 
 and we may discuss, with great industry, and 
 shrewdness of argument, those passages in the 
 Scripture, which seem to favor the opinion; but 
 still, no certain means having been afforded us, 
 no certain end can be attained; and after all 
 that can be said, it will still be doubtful, whe- 
 ther we shall know each other or not. 
 
 As to arguments founded upon human rea- 
 son only, it would be easy to muster up a much 
 greater number on the affirmative side of the 
 question, than it would be worth my while to 
 write, or yours to read. Let us see, therefore, 
 what the Scripture says, or seems to say, towards 
 the proof of it; and of this kind of argument 
 also I shall insert but a few of those, which seem 
 to rne to be the fairest and clearest for the pur- 
 pose. For after all, a disputant, on either side of 
 this question, is in danger of that censure of our 
 blessed Lord's; " Ye do err, not knowing the 
 Scripture, nor the power of God."
 
 150 
 
 As to parables, I know it has been said, in 
 the dispute concerning the intermediate state, 
 that they are not argumentative; but this having 
 been controverted by very wise and good men, 
 and the parable of Dives and Lazarus having been 
 used by such, to prove an intermediate state, I 
 see not why it may not be as fairly used for the 
 proof of any other matter, which it seems fairly 
 to imply. In this parable, we see, that Dives is 
 represented as knowing Lazarus, and Abraham 
 as knowing them both; and the discourse be- 
 tween them is entirely concerning their respec- 
 tive characters and circumstances upon Earth. 
 Here, therefore, our Saviour seems to counte- 
 nance the notion of a mutual knowledge and re- 
 collection : and if a soul that has perished shall 
 know the soul that is saved, surely the heirs of 
 salvation shall know and recollect each other. 
 
 In the first epistle to the Thessalonians, the 
 second chapter, and nineteenth verse, St. Paul 
 says, " What is our hope, or joy, or crown of re- 
 " joicing? Are not even ye in the presence of 
 " our Lord Jesus Christ at his coming? For ye 
 " are our glory and our joy." 
 
 As to the hope, which the Apostle has formed 
 concerning them, he himself refers the accom- 
 plishment of it to the coming of Christ, mean- 
 ing, that then he should receive the recompense 
 of his labours in their behalf; his joy and glory
 
 151 
 
 he refers likewise to the same period, both which 
 would result from the sight of such numbers re- 
 deemed by the blessing of God upon his minis- 
 tration, when he should present them before the 
 great Judge, and say, in the words of a greater 
 than himself, " Lo ! I, and the children, whom 
 " thou hast given me." This seems to imply, 
 that the Apostle should know the converts, and 
 the converts the Apostle, at least at the day of 
 judgment, and if then, why not afterwards? 
 
 See also the fourth chapter of that epistle, 
 verses 13, 14, \6, which I have not room to tran- 
 scribe. Here the Apostle comforts them, under 
 their affliction for their deceased brethren, ex- 
 horting them " Not to sorrow as without hope;" 
 and what is the hope, by which he teaches them 
 to support their spirits? Even this, " That them, 
 " which sleep in Jesus, shall God bring with 
 " him." In other words, and by a fair para- 
 phrase surely, telling them they are only taken 
 from them for a season, and that they should 
 receive them at their resurrection. 
 
 If you can take off the force of these Texts, 
 my dear Cousin, you will go a great way towards 
 shaking my opinion; if not, I think they must 
 go a great way towards shaking yours. 
 
 The reason, why I did not send you my opi- 
 nion of Pearsall was, because I had not then read 
 him; I have read him since, and like him much,
 
 152 
 
 especially the latter part of him ; but you have 
 whetted my curiosity to see the last letter, by 
 tearing it out; unless you can give me a good 
 teason, why I should not see it, I shall inquire for 
 the book the first time I go to Cambridge. Per- 
 haps I may be partial to Hervey, for the sake of 
 his other writings ; but I cannot give Pearsall 
 the preference to him, for I think him one of the 
 most scriptural writers in the world. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER 
 
 AprTl 18, 1766. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 Having gone as far as I 
 thought needful, to justify the opinion of our 
 meeting and knowing each other hereafter; I 
 find, upon reflection, that I have done but half 
 my business, and that one of the questions, you 
 proposed, remains entirely unconsidered, viz. 
 " Whether the things of our present state will 
 " not be of too low and mean a nature to en- 
 " gage our thoughts, or make a part of our com- 
 i( munications in Heaven."
 
 153 
 
 The common and ordinary occurrences of life 
 no doubt, and even the ties of kindred, and of 
 all temporal interests, will be entirely discarded 
 from amongst that happy society ; and, possibly, 
 even the remembrance of them done away. But 
 it does not therefore follow, that our spiritual 
 concerns, even in this life, will be forgotten; 
 neither do I think, that they can ever appear 
 trifling to us, in any the most distant period of 
 eternity. God, as you say in reference to the 
 Scripture, will be all in all. But does not that 
 expression mean, that, being admitted to so 
 near an approach to our heavenly Father and 
 Redeemer, our whole nature, the soul, and all 
 its faculties, will be employed in praising and 
 adoring him? Doubtless, however, this will be 
 the case; and if so, will it not furnish out a glo- 
 rious theme of thanksgiving, to recollect " The 
 " rock, whence we were hewn, and the hole of 
 " the pit, whence we were digged?" To recol- 
 lect the time, when our faith, which, under the 
 tuition and nurture of the Holy Spirit, has pro- 
 duced such a plentiful harvest of immortal bliss, 
 was as a grain of mustard seed, small in itself, 
 promising but little fruit, and producing less? 
 To recollect the various attempts, that were 
 made upon it, by the World, the Flesh, and the 
 Devil, and its various triumphs over all, by the 
 assistance of Gotf, through our Lord Jesus Christ !
 
 154 
 
 At present, whatever our convictions may be of 
 the sinfulness and corruption of our nature, we 
 can make but a very imperfect estimate either of 
 our weakness or our guilt. Then, no doubt, we 
 shall understand the full value of the wonderful 
 salvation wrought out for us : and it seems rea- 
 sonable to suppose, that, in order to form a just 
 idea of our redemption, we shall be able to form 
 a just one of the danger we have escaped; when 
 we know how weak and frail we were, surely we 
 shall be more able to render due praise and honor 
 to his strength, who fought for us; when we know 
 completely the hatefulness of sin in the sight of 
 God, and how deeply we were tainted by it, we 
 shall know how to value the blood, by which 
 we were cleansed, as we ought. The twenty- 
 four elders, in the fifth of the Revelations, give 
 glory to God for their redemption, out of every 
 kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation. 
 This surely implies a retrospect to their respec- 
 tive conditions upon Earth, and that each re- 
 membered out of what particular kindred and 
 nation he had been redeemed ; and if so, then 
 surely the minutest circumstances of their re- 
 demption did not escape their memory. They, 
 who triumph over the Beast, in the fifteenth 
 chapter, sing the song of Moses, the servant of 
 God; and what was that song? A sublime re- 
 cord of Israel's deliverance, and the destruction
 
 155 
 
 of her enemies in the Red sea, typical, no doubt 
 of the song, which the redeemed in Sion shall 
 sing, to celebrate their own sal/vation, and the 
 defeat of their spiritual enemies. This, again, 
 implies a recollection of the dangers, they had 
 before encountered, and the supplies of strength 
 and ardour, they had, in every emergency, re- 
 ceived from the great deliverer out of all. These 
 quotations do not, indeed, prove, that their war- 
 fare upon Earth includes a part of their converse 
 with each other; but they prove, that it is a 
 theme not unworthy to be heard even before 
 the throne of God, and therefore it cannot be 
 unfit for reciprocal communication. 
 
 But you doubt, whether there is any com- 
 munication between the blessed at all; neither 
 do I recollect any Scripture that proves it, or 
 that bears any relation to the subject. But rea- 
 son seems to require it so peremptorily, that a 
 society without social intercourse seems to be 
 a solecism, and a contradiction in terms, and 
 the inhabitants of those regions are called, you 
 know, in Scripture, an innumerable company, 
 and an assembly, which seems to convey the 
 idea of society, as clearly as the word itself. 
 Human testimony weighs but little in matters 
 of this sort, but let it have all the weight it 
 can: I know no greater names in divinity, than 
 Watts and Doddridge; they were both of this
 
 15& 
 
 opinion, and I send you the words of the lat- 
 ter: 
 
 " Our companions in glory may probably as- 
 " sist us by their wise and good observations, 
 " when we come to make the Providence of 
 " God, here upon Earth, under the guidance 
 " and direction of our Lord Jesus Christ, the 
 " subject of our mutual converse." 
 
 Thus, my dear Cousin, I have spread out 
 my reasons before you, for an opinion, which, 
 whether admitted or denied, affects not the 
 state, or interest, of our soul. May our Cre- 
 ator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier, conduct us into 
 his own Jerusalem ; where there shall be no 
 night, neither any darkness at all; where wg. 
 shall be free, even from innocent error,' and 
 perfect in the light of the knowledge of God, 
 An the face of Jesus Christ. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 W. C
 
 157 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 TO xMRS. COWPER. 
 
 Huntingdon, Sept. 3, 1766: 
 31 Y DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 It is reckoned, you know, a 
 great achievement, to silence an opponent in 
 disputation; and your silence was of so long a 
 continuance, that I might well begin to please 
 myself with the apprehension of having accom- 
 plished so arduous a matter. To be serious, 
 however, I am not sorry, that what I have said, 
 concerning our knowledge of each other in a 
 future state, has a little inclined you to the af- 
 firmative. For though the redeemed of the Lord 
 shall be sure of being as happy in that state, as 
 infinite power, employed by infinite goodness, 
 can make them ; and therefore, it may seem im- 
 material, whether we shall, or shall 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 eter- 
 nal separation 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
 
 158 
 
 the same thing. Remember them, I think she 
 needs must. To hear that they are happy, will 
 indeed be no small addition to her own felicity; 
 but to see them so, will surely be a greater. 
 Thus, at least, it appears to our present human 
 apprehension; 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 con- 
 nexions. 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 affections, 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 inclina- 
 tion to cultivate and improve such a fugitive 
 business. Yet friendship is necessary to our 
 happiness here; and built upon Christian prin- 
 ciples, 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? the only love 
 which deserves the name ; a love which can
 
 159 
 
 toil, and watch, and deny itself, and go to death, 
 for its brother. Worldly friendships are a poor 
 weed, compared with this ; and even this union 
 of spirit in the bond of peace would suffer, in 
 my mind at least, could I think it were only 
 coeval with our earthly mansions. It may pos- 
 sibly argue great weakness in me, in this in- 
 stance, 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 di- 
 vine 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, what other- 
 wise would not be worth mentioning, that I 
 have lately been just enough indisposed to con- 
 vince 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 ill- 
 ness 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 out- 
 ward 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
 
 160 
 
 shortest notice, to surrender up to him that life, 
 which I have twice received from him. Whe- 
 ther I live or die, I desire it may be to His 
 Glory, and it must be to my happiness. I thank 
 God that I have those amongst my kindred, to 
 whom I can write, without reserve, my senti- 
 ments 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 unworthy to mention, has done for 
 me, the chief of sinners. Once he was a terror 
 to me, and his service, Oh what 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. 
 
 LETTER XXI. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Huntingdon, Oct. 20, 1 76G. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 I am very sorry for poor 
 Charles's illness, and hope you will soon have 
 cause to thank God for his complete recovery.
 
 161 
 
 We have an epidemical fever in this country 
 likewise, which leaves behind it a continual 
 sighing, almost to suffocation ; not that I have 
 seen any instance of it, for, blessed be God ! our 
 family have hitherto escaped it, but such was 
 the account I heard of it this morning. 
 
 I am obliged to you for the interest you take 
 in my welfare, and for your inquiring, so parti- 
 cularly, after the manner, in which my time 
 passes here. As to amusements, I mean what 
 the world calls such, we have none : the place 
 indeed swarms with them ; and cards and danc- 
 ing are the professed business of almost all the 
 gentle inhabitants of Huntingdon. We refuse 
 to take part in them, or to be accessaries 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 
 either the Scripture, or the Sermons of some 
 faithful preacher of those holy mysteries; at 
 eleven we attend Divine Service, which is per- 
 formed 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 gar- 
 
 vol. r. M
 
 162 
 
 den, where with Mrs. Unwin and her son I have 
 generally the pleasure 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, 
 are the best and most musical performers. After 
 tea we sally fortli to walk in good earnest. Mrs. 
 Unwin is a good walker, and we have generally 
 travelled about four miles before we see home 
 again. When the days are short, we make this 
 excursion in the former part of the day, be- 
 tween church-time and dinner. At night we 
 read, and converse, as before, till supper, and 
 commonly finish the evening either with hymns, 
 or a sermon, 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 cheerful- 
 ness; accordingly we are all happy, and dwell 
 together in unity as brethren. Mrs. Unwin lias 
 almost a maternal affection for me, and I have 
 something 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 pur-
 
 163 
 
 pose; but it has pleased God, by means, which 
 there is no need to particularize, to give me full 
 satisfaction as to the propriety of declining it; 
 indeed, they who have the least idea of what I 
 have suffered, from the dread of public exhi- 
 bitions, will readily excuse my never attempting 
 them hereafter. In the mean time, if it please 
 the Almighty, I may be an instrument of turn- 
 ing many to the truth, in a private way, and 
 hope that my endeavours, in this way, have not 
 been entirely unsuccessful. Had I the zeal of 
 Moses, I should want an Aaron to be my spokes- 
 man. 
 
 Yours ever, my dear Cousin, 
 
 W. C 
 
 LETTER XXII. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 March II, 1 767. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 To find those whom I love, 
 clearly and strongly persuaded of evangelical 
 truth, gives me a pleasure superior to any, this 
 world can afford me. Judge then, whether 
 your letter, in which the body and substance of 
 a saving faith is so evidently set forth, could 
 meet with a lukewarm reception at my hands, 
 m 2
 
 164 
 
 or be entertained with indifference! Would you 
 know the true reason of my long silence? Con- 
 scious that my religious principles are generally 
 excepted against, and that the conduct they 
 produce, wherever they are heartily maintained, 
 is still more the object of disapprobation than 
 those principles themselves; and remembering, 
 that I had made both the one and the other 
 known to you, without having any clear assur- 
 ance, that our faith in Jesus was of the same 
 stamp and character ; I could not help thinking 
 it possible, that you might disapprove both my 
 sentiments and practice; that you might think 
 the one unsupported by Scripture, and the other 
 whimsical, and unnecessarily strict and rigorous, 
 and consequently would be rather pleased with 
 the suspension of a correspondence, which a dif- 
 ferent way of thinking, upon so momentous a 
 subject, as that we wrote upon, was likely to 
 render tedious, and irksome, to you. 
 
 I have told you the truth from my heart; 
 forgive me these injurious suspicions, and never 
 imagine, that I shall hear from you upon this 
 delightful theme without a real joy, or without 
 prayer to God to prosper you in the way of his 
 truth, his sanctifying and saving truth. The 
 book, you mention, lies now upon my table. 
 Marshall is an old acquaintance of mine: I have 
 both read him, and heard him read with pleasure
 
 165 
 
 and edification. The doctrines he maintains are, 
 under the influence of the spirit of Christ, the 
 very life of my soul, and the soul of all my hap- 
 piness : that Jesus is a present Saviour from the 
 guilt of sin, by his most precious blood, and from 
 the power of it by his spirit ; that, corrupt and 
 wretched in ourselves, in him, and in him only, 
 we are complete; that being united to Jesus by 
 a lively faith, we have a solid and eternal in r 
 terest in his obedience and sufferings, to justify 
 us before the face of our heavenly Father; and 
 that all this inestimable treasure, the earnest of 
 which is in grace, and its consummation in 
 glory, is given, freely given, to us of God ; in 
 short, that he hath opened the kingdom of 
 Heaven to all believers. These are the truths, 
 which, by the grace of God, shall ever be dearer 
 to me than life itself; shall ever be placed next 
 my heart, as the throne, whereon the Saviour 
 himself shall sit, to sway all its motions, and 
 reduce that world of iniquity and rebellion to a 
 state of filial and affectionate obedience to the 
 will of the most Holy. 
 
 These, my dear Cousin, are the truths, to 
 which by nature we are enemies they debase 
 the sinner, and exalt the Saviour, to a degree, 
 which the pride of our hearts (till Almighty 
 grace subdues them) is determined never to al- 
 low. May the Almighty reveal his Son In our
 
 166 
 
 hearts, continually more and more, and teach 
 
 us to increase in love towards him continually, 
 
 for having given us the unspeakable riches of 
 
 Christ. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 March 14, 1767. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 I just add a line, by way of 
 Postscript to my last, to apprise you of the ar- 
 rival of a very dear friend of mine at the Park, 
 on Friday next, the son of Mr. Unwin, whom I 
 have desired to call on you, in his way from 
 London to Huntingdon. If you knew him as 
 well as I do, you would love him as much. But 
 I leave the young man to speak for himself, 
 which he is very able to do. He is ready pos- 
 sessed of an answer to every question, you can 
 possibly ask concerning me, and knows my 
 whole story, from first to last. I give you this 
 previous notice, because I know you are not 
 fond of strange faces, and because I thought it 
 would, in some degree, save him the pain of an- 
 nouncing himself.
 
 m 
 
 I am become a great florist, and shrub- 
 doctor. If the Major can make up a small 
 packet of seeds, that will make a figure in a 
 garden, where we have little else besides jessa- 
 mine and honey-suckle; such a packet I mean 
 as may be put into one's fob, I will promise to 
 take great care of them, as I ought to value na- 
 tives of the Park. They must not be such how- 
 ever as require great skill in the management, 
 for at present I have no skill to spare. 
 
 I think Marshall one of the best writers, 
 and the most spiritual expositor of Scripture, Ji 
 ever read. I admire the strength of his argu- 
 ment, and the clearness of his reasonings, upon 
 those parts of our most holy religion, which 
 are generally least understood (even by real 
 Christians) as masterpieces of the kind. His 
 section upon the union of the soul with Christ 
 is an instance of what I mean, in which he has 
 spoken of a most mysterious truth with admi- 
 rable perspicuity, and with great good sense, 
 making it all the while subservient to his main 
 purport of proving holiness to be the fruit and 
 effect of faith. 
 
 I subjoin thus much upon that author, be- 
 cause though you desired my opinion of him, I 
 remember that in my last I rather left you to 
 find it out by inference, than expressed it, as I 
 ought to have done. I never met with a man
 
 168 
 
 who understood the plan of salvation better, or 
 was more happy in explaining it. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Huntingdon, April 3, 1767. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 You sent my friend Unwin 
 home to us charmed with your kind reception 
 of him, and with every thing he saw at the 
 Park. Shall I once more give you a peep into 
 my vile and deceitful heart? What motive do 
 you think lay at the bottom of my conduct, 
 when I desired him to call upon you? I did not 
 suspect, at first, that pride and vain glory had 
 any share in it; but quickly after I had recom- 
 mended the visit to him, I discovered, in that 
 fruitful soil, the very root of the matter. You 
 know I am a stranger here; all such are sus- 
 pected characters, unless they bring their cre- 
 dentials with them. To this moment, I believe, 
 it is matter of speculation in the place, whence 
 I came, and to whom I belong. 
 
 Though my friend, you may suppose, before 
 I was admitted an inmate here, was satisfied 
 that I was not a mere vagabond, and has, since
 
 ,169 
 
 that time, received more convincing proofs of 
 my sponsibility; yet I could not resist the op- 
 portunity of furnishing him with ocular demon- 
 stration of it, by introducing him to one of my 
 most splendid connexions ; that when he hears 
 me called " That fellow Cowper" which has 
 happened heretofore, he may be able, upon un- 
 questionable evidence, to assert my gentleman- 
 hood, and relieve me from the weight of that 
 opprobrious appellation. Oh Pride! Pride! it 
 deceives with the subtlety of a serpent, and 
 seems to walk erect, though it crawls upon the 
 Earth. How will it twist and twine itself about, 
 to get from under the Cross, which it is the glory 
 of ofr Christian calling to be able to bear with 
 patience and good will. They who can guess at 
 the heart of a stranger, and you especially, who 
 are of a compassionate temper, will be more 
 ready, perhaps, to excuse me, in this instance, 
 than I can be to excuse myself. But, in good 
 truth, it was abominable pride of heart, indig- 
 nation, and vanity, and deserves no better name. 
 How shall such a creature be admitted into 
 those pure and sinless mansions, where nothing 
 shall enter that defileth, did not the blood of 
 Christ, applied by the hand of faith, take away 
 the guilt of sin, and leave no spot or stain be- 
 hind it? Oh what continual need have I of an 
 Almighty, All-sufficient Saviour! I am glad you
 
 170 
 
 arc acquainted so particularly with all the cir- 
 cumstances of my story, for I know that your 
 secrecy and discretion may be trusted with any 
 thing. A thread of mercy ran through all the 
 intricate maze of those afflictive providences, 
 so mysterious to myself at the time, and which 
 must ever remain so to all, who will not see 
 what was the great design of them ; at the judg- 
 ment seat of Christ, the whole shall be laid open. 
 How is the rod of iron changed into a sceptre 
 o( love! 
 
 I thank you for the seeds ; I have committed 
 some of each sort to the ground, whence they 
 will spring up like so many mementos to re- 
 mind me of my friends at the Park. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER XXV. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Huntingdon, July 13, I/67. 
 }1Y 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 Sun- 
 day morning, received a dreadful fracture on
 
 171 
 
 the back part of the scull, under which he lan- 
 guished till Thursday evening, and then died. 
 This awful dispensation has left an impression 
 upon our spirits, which will not presently be 
 worn off. 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 cometh. 
 
 The effect of it upon my circumstances will 
 only be a change of the place of my abode. For 
 I shall still, by God's leave, continue with Mrs. 
 Unwin, whose behaviour to me has always been 
 that of a mother to a son. We know not yet 
 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. Conyers of Helmsley, in Yorkshire, 
 and Mr. Newton of Olney, to look out a place 
 for us, but at present are entirely ignorant un- 
 der which of the three we shall settle, or whe- 
 ther under either. I have written to my Aunt 
 Madan, to desire Martin to assist us with his in- 
 quiries. It is probable we shall stay here till 
 
 Michaelmas. 
 
 W. C.
 
 172 
 LETTER XXVI. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Huntingdon, July 16, 1767. 
 DEAR JOE, 
 
 Your wishes, that the news- 
 paper may have misinformed you, are vain. Mr. 
 Unwin is dead, and died in the manner there 
 mentioned. At nine o'clock on Sunday morn- 
 ing he was in perfect health, and as likely to 
 live^f 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 heard his dying groans, the effect 
 of great agony, for he was a strong man, and 
 much convulsed in his last moments. The few 
 short intervals of sense, that were indulged him, 
 he spent in earnest prayer, and in expressions of 
 a firm trust and confidence in the only Saviour. 
 To that strong hold 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 un-
 
 173 
 
 der 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 up, but we shall 
 
 settle in some other place, where, is at present 
 
 uncertain. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 These tender and confidential letters de- 
 scribe, in the clearest light, the singularly peace- 
 ful and devout life of this amiable writer, dur- 
 ing his residence at Huntingdon, and the me- 
 lancholy accident, which occasioned his removal 
 to a distant county. Time and chance now in- 
 troduced to the notice of Cowper the zealous 
 and venerable friend, who became his intimate 
 associate for many years, after having advised 
 and assisted him in the important concern of 
 fixing his future residence. Mr. Newton, then 
 curate of Olney, in Buckinghamshire, had been 
 requested by the late Dr. Conyers (who in tak- 
 ing his degree in divinity at Cambridge, had 
 formed a friendship with young Mr. Unwin, and 
 learned from him the religious character of his 
 Mother) to seize an opportunity, as he was pass- 
 ing through Huntingdon, of making a visit to 
 an exemplary lady. This visit (so important in
 
 174 
 
 its consequences to the destiny of Cowper !) hap- 
 pened to take place within a few days after the 
 calamitous death of Mr. Unwin. As a change of 
 scene appeared desirable, both to Mrs. Unwin, and 
 to the interesting recluse, whom she had gene- 
 rously requested to continue under her care, Mr. 
 Newton offered to assist them in removing to 
 the pleasant and picturesque county in which 
 he resided. They were willing to enter into the 
 flock of a benevolent and animated pastor, whose 
 ideas were so much in harmony with their own. 
 He engaged for them a house at Olney, where 
 they arrived on the fourteenth of October, 1 767- 
 The time of Cowper, in his new situation, 
 seems to have been chiefly devoted to religious 
 contemplation, to social prayer, and to active 
 charity. To this first of Christian virtues his 
 heart was eminently inclined, and Providence 
 very graciously enabled him to exercise and en- 
 joy it to an extent far superior to what his own 
 scanty fortune appeared to allow. He was very 
 far from inheriting opulence on the death of his 
 father in 1756, and the singular cast of his own 
 mind was such, that nature seemed to have ren- 
 dered it impossible for him, either to covet, or 
 to acquire riches. His perfect exemption from 
 worldly passions is forcibly displayed in the two 
 following letters.
 
 175 
 LETTER XXVII. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, June 16, 1/6S. 
 DEAR JOE, 
 
 I thank you for so full an an- 
 swer to so empty an epistle. If Olney furnished 
 any thing for your amusement, you should have 
 it in return, but occurrences here are as scarce 
 as cucumbers at Christmas. 
 
 I visited St. Alban'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 con- 
 tinually, and make the circumstances of a poor 
 transient half spent life so insipid and unaffecr- 
 ing, that I have no heart to think or write much 
 about them. Whether the nation is worshipping 
 Mr. Wilkes, or any other idol, is of little moment 
 to one who hopes, and believes, that he shall 
 shortly stand in the presence of the great and 
 blessed God. I thank him, that he has given 
 me such a deep impressed persuasion of this aw- 
 ful truth, as a thousand worlds would not pur- 
 chase from me. It ives me a relish to every 
 blessing, and makes every trouble light. 
 
 Affectionately yours, 
 
 W. C.
 
 176 
 LETTER XXVIII. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 1769. 
 
 DEAR JOE, 
 
 Sir Thomas crosses the Alps, and 
 Sir Cowper, for that is his title at Olney, pre- 
 fers 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 differs from another!" 
 This does not seem a very sublime exclamation 
 in English, but I remember we were taught to 
 admire it in the original. 
 
 My dear friend, I am obliged to you for your 
 invitation : but being long accustomed to retire- 
 ment, which I was always fond of, I am now 
 more than ever unwilling to revisit those noisy 
 and crowded scenes, which I never loved, and 
 which I now abhor. I remember you with all 
 the friendship, I ever professed, which is as 
 much as I ever entertained for any man. But 
 the strange and uncommon incidents of my life 
 have given an entire new turn to my whole cha- 
 racter and conduct, and rendered me incapable
 
 177 
 
 of receiving pleasure from the same employ- 
 ments and amusements, of which I could rea- 
 dily 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. 
 
 His retirement was ennobled by many private 
 acts of beneficence, and his exemplary virtue 
 was such, that the opulent sometimes delighted 
 to make him their almoner. In his sequestered 
 life at Olney, he ministered abundantly to the 
 wants of the poor, from a fund, with which he 
 was supplied by that model of extensive and un- 
 ostentatious philanthropy, the late John Thorn- 
 ton, Esq., whose name he has immortalized in 
 his Poem on Charity; still honoring his me- 
 mory by an additional tribute to his virtues in 
 the following unpublished Poem, written im- 
 mediately on his decease, in the year 1790. 
 
 Poets attempt the noblest task they can, 
 Praising the Author of all Good in man ; 
 And next, commemorating worthies lost, 
 The dead, in whom that good abounded most. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 
 
 Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more 
 Fam'd for thy probity, from shore to shore, 
 Thee, Thornton, worthy in some page to shine, 
 As honest, and more eloquent than mine, 
 I mourn; or, since thrice happy thou must be. 
 The world, no longer thy abode, not thee; 
 Thee to deplore were grief mispent indeed ; 
 It were to weep, that goodness has its meed, 
 That there is bliss prepar'd in yonder sky, 
 And glory for the virtuous, when they die. 
 
 What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard, 
 Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford, 
 Sweet, as the privilege of healing wo 
 Suffer'd by virtue, combating below; 
 That privilege was thine ; Heaven gave thee means 
 To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, 
 Till thy appearance chas'd the gloom, forlorn 
 As midnight, and despairing of a morn. 
 Thou hadst an industry in doing good, 
 Restless as his, who toils and sweats for food, 
 Av'rice in thee was the desire of wealth 
 By rust imperishable^ or by stealth. 
 And if the genuine worth of gold depend 
 On application to its noblest end, 
 Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven, 
 Surpassing all, that mine, or mint, have given . 
 And tho' God made thee of a nature prone 
 To distribution, boundless, of thy own ; 
 And still, by motives of religious force, 
 Impell'd thee more to that heroic course ; 
 Yet was thy liberality discreet j 
 Nice in its choice> and of a temp'rate heat ; 
 And, though in act unwearied, secret still, 
 As, in some solitude, the summer rill
 
 179 
 
 Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green, 
 
 And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen. 
 
 Such was thy Charity ; no sudden start 
 After long sleep of passion in the heart, 
 But steadfast principle, and in its kind 
 Of close alliance with th' eternal mind j 
 Trac'd easily to its true source above, 
 To Him, whose works bespeak his nature, love. 
 Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make 
 This record of thee for the Gospel's sake ; 
 That the incredulous themselves may see 
 Its use and power, exemplified in thee. 
 
 This simple and sublime eulogy was per- 
 fectly merited ; and among the happiest actions 
 of this truly liberal man, we may reckon his fur- 
 nishing to a character so reserved, and so re- 
 tired, as Cowper, the means of his enjoying the 
 gratification of active and costly beneficence; 
 a gratification, in which the sequestered poet 
 had nobly indulged himself, before his acquaint- 
 ance with Mr. Newton afforded him an oppor- 
 tunity of being concerned in distributing the 
 private, yet extensive, bounty of an opulent and 
 exemplary merchant. 
 
 Cowper, before he quitted St. Alban's, as- 
 sumed the charge of a necessitous child, to ex- 
 tricate him from the perils of being educated 
 by very profligate parents ; he put him to school 
 at Huntingdon, removed him, on his own re- 
 
 N 2
 
 180 
 
 moval, to Olney, and finally settled him as an 
 apprentice at Oundle in Northamptonshire. 
 
 The warm, benevolent, and cheerful enthu- 
 siasm of Mr. Newton induced his friend Cowper 
 to participate so abundantly in his devout occu- 
 pation, that the poet's time, and thoughts, were 
 more and more engrossed by religious pursuits. 
 He wrote many hymns, and occasionally di- 
 rected the prayers of the poor. Where the 
 nerves are tender, and the imagination trem- 
 blingly alive, any fervid excess in the exercise 
 of the purest piety may be attended with such 
 perils to corporeal, and mental, health, as men 
 of a more firm and hardy fibre would be far from 
 apprehending. Perhaps the life, that Cowper 
 led, on his settling in Olney, had a tendency to 
 increase the morbid propensity of his frame, 
 though it was a life of admirable sanctity. 
 
 Absorbed as he was in devotion, he forgot 
 not his distant friends, and particularly his ami- 
 able relation, and correspondent, of the Park- 
 house, near Hartford. The following letter to 
 that lady has no date, but it was probably writ- 
 ten soon after his establishment at Olney. The 
 remarkable memento in the Postscript was un- 
 doubtedly introduced to counteract an idle rut 
 mour, arising from the circumstance of his hav- 
 ing settled himself under the roof of a female 
 friend, whose age and whose virtues, he consir
 
 181 
 
 dered as sufficient securities to ensure her repu- 
 tation. 
 
 LETTER XXIX. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 I have not been behind hand 
 in reproaching myself with neglect, but desire 
 to take shame to myself for my unprofitableness 
 in this, as well as in all other respects. I take 
 the next immediate opportunity however of 
 thanking you for yours, and of assuring you, 
 that instead of being surprised at your silence, 
 I rather wonder that you, or any of my friends, 
 have any room left for so careless and negligent 
 a correspondent in your memories. I am obliged 
 to you for the intelligence you send me of my 
 kindred, and rejoice to hear of their welfare. 
 He who settles the bounds of ofar habitations 
 has at length cast our lot at a great distance 
 from each other, but I do not therefore forget 
 their former kindness to me, or cease to be in- 
 terested in their well being. You live in the 
 centre of a world I know you do not delight in. 
 Happy are you, my dear friend, in being able
 
 182 
 
 to discern the insufficiency of all it can afford, 
 to fill and satisfy the desires of an immortal 
 soul. That God, who created us for the enjoy- 
 ment of himself, has determined in mercy that 
 it shall fail us here, in order that the blessed 
 result of all our inquiries after happiness in the 
 creature may be a warm pursuit, and a close at- 
 tachment, to our true interests, in fellowship 
 and communion with Him, through the name 
 and mediation of a dear Redeemer. I bless his 
 goodness and grace, that I have any reason to 
 hope I am a partaker with you in the desire 
 after better things, than are to be found in a 
 world polluted with sin, and therefore devoted 
 to destruction. May he enable us both to con- 
 sider our present life in its only true light, as an 
 opportunity put into our hands to glorify him 
 amongst men, by a conduct suited to his word 
 and will. I am miserably defective in this holy 
 and blessed art, but I hope there is at the bot- 
 tom of all my sinful infirmities a sincere desire 
 to live just so long as I may be enabled, in some 
 poor measure, to answer the end of my exist- 
 ence in this respect, and then to obey the sum- 
 mons, and attend him in a world, where they 
 who are his servants here shall pay him an un- 
 sinful obedience for ever. Your dear Mother 
 is too good to me, and puts a more charitable 
 construction upon my silence than the fact will
 
 183 
 
 warrant. I am not better employed than I 
 should be in corresponding with her. I have 
 that within, which hinders me wretchedly in 
 every thing that I ought to do, but is prone to 
 trifle, and let time, and every good thing run to 
 Avaste. I hope however to write to her soon. 
 
 My love, and best wishes, attend Mr. Cow- 
 per, and all that inquire after me. May God be 
 with you, to bless you, and do you good, by all 
 his dispensations ; don't forget me when you are 
 speaking to our best Friend before his Mercy- 
 seat. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 N. B. / am not married. 
 
 In the year 1769, the lady to whom the pre- 
 ceding letters are addressed, was involved in 
 domestic affliction ; and the following, which the 
 poet wrote to her on the occasion, is so full of 
 genuine piety, and true pathos, that it would be 
 an injury to his memory to suppress it.
 
 184 
 LETTER XXX. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Olney, Aug. 31, 1769. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 A letter from your Bro- 
 ther Frederic brought me yesterday the most 
 afflicting intelligence, that has reached me these 
 many years. I pray 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 ! 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 necessities, 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 peace, in the midst
 
 185 
 
 of trouble. He has said, when thou passest 
 through the fire, I will be with thee, and when 
 through the floods, 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 neces- 
 sity 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 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 be- 
 lieve, 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 all our afflictions he is afflicted, 
 and chastens us in his mercy. Surely he will 
 sanctify this dispensation to you, do you great 
 and everlasting good by it, make the world ap- 
 pear 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 shall 
 wipe away all tears from your eyes for ever. O 
 that comfortable word ! " I have chosen thee in 
 the furnaces of affliction," so that our very sor- 
 rows are evidences of our calling, and he chas- 
 tens us, because we are his children. 
 
 My dear Cousin, I commit you to the word
 
 186' 
 
 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 ef- 
 fects, 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, hut 
 God must comfort you. 
 
 Yours, in our dear Lord Jesus, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 In the following year, the tender feelings of 
 Cowper were called forth by family affliction, 
 that pressed more immediately on himself; he 
 was hurried to Cambridge by the dangerous ill- 
 ness of his Brother. An affection truly fra- 
 ternal had ever subsisted between the brothers, 
 and the reader will recollect what the poet has 
 said, in one of his letters, concerning their social 
 intercourse, while he resided at Huntingdon. 
 
 In the two first years of his residence at Ol- 
 ney, he had been repeatedly visited by Mr. John 
 Cowper; and how cordially he returned that 
 kindness and attention will appear from the 
 following letter, which was probably written in 
 the chamber of the invalide, whom the writer 
 so fervently wishes to restore.
 
 187 
 
 LETTER XXXI. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 March 5, 1 770. 
 
 My Brother continues much as 
 he was. His case is a very dangerous one. An 
 imposthume 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 does 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 by a signal 
 interposition of Providence in answer to prayer. 
 His case is clearly out of 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 
 car, and give an answer of peace. I 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 coun- 
 try, where God shall wipe away all tears from.
 
 188 
 
 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. 
 
 The sickness and death of his learned, pious, 
 and affectionate brother, made a very strong 
 impression on the tender heart and mind of 
 Cowper an impression so strong, that it in- 
 duced him to write a narrative of the remark- 
 able circumstances which occurred at the time. 
 He sent a copy of this narrative to Mr. Newton. 
 The paper is curious in every point of view, and 
 so likely to awaken sentiments of piety in minds, 
 where it may be most desirable to have them 
 awakened, that Mr. Newton has thought it his 
 duty to print it. 
 
 The following letter displays, in a manner 
 so tender and so forcible, the feelings of piety 
 which reigned at this awful season in the hearts 
 of the two affectionate brothers, that it seems to 
 claim a place in this volume.
 
 189 
 LETTER XXXII. 
 
 TO THE REV. J. NEWTON. 
 
 March 31, 1770. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I am glad, that the Lord made 
 you a fellow labourer with us, in praying my 
 dear brother out of darkness into light. It was 
 a blessed work, and, when it shall be your turn 
 to die in the Lord and to rest from all your la- 
 bors, that work shall follow you. I once enter- 
 tained hopes of his recovery : from the moment, 
 when it pleased God to give him light in his 
 soul, there was for four days such a visible 
 amendment in his body as surprised us all. Dr. 
 Glynn himself was puzzled, and began to think, 
 that all his threatening conjectures would fail of 
 their accomplishment. I am well satisfied, that 
 it was thus ordered, not for his own sake, but 
 for the sake of us, who had been so deeply con- 
 cerned for his spiritual welfare, that he might 
 be able to give such evident proof of the work 
 of God upon his soul as should leave no doubt 
 behind it. As to his friends at Cambridge, they 
 knew nothing of the matter. He never spoke 
 of these things, but to myself, nor to me. when
 
 J 90 
 
 others were within hearing, except that he some- 
 times would speak in the presence of the nurse. 
 He knew well to make the distinction hetween 
 those, who could understand him, and those, 
 who could not; and that he was not in circum- 
 stances to maintain such a controversy as a de- 
 claration of his new views and sentiments would 
 have exposed him to. Just after his death I 
 spoke of this change to a dear friend of his, a 
 fellow of the college, who had attended him 
 through all his sickness with assiduity and ten- 
 derness. But he did not understand me. 
 
 I now proceed to mention such particulars 
 as I can recollect, and which I had not oppor- 
 tunity to insert in my letters to Olney; for I 
 left Cambridge suddenly, and sooner than I ex- 
 pected. He was deeply impressed with a sense 
 of the difficulties he should have to encounter, 
 if it should please God to raise him again. He 
 saw the necessity of being faithful, and the op- 
 position he should expose himself to by being 
 so. Under the weight of these thoughts he one 
 day broke out in the following prayer, when 
 only myself was with him. " O Lord, thou art 
 " light; and in thee is no darkness at all. Thou 
 " art the fountain of all wisdom, and it is essen- 
 " tial to thee to be good and gracious. I am a 
 " child, O Lord, teach me how I shall conduct 
 " myself! Give me the wisdom of the serpent,
 
 191 
 
 * s with the harmlessness of the dove! Bless the 
 " sou4s thou hast committed to the care of thy 
 " helpless miserable creature, who has no wis- 
 " dom or knowledge of his own, and make me 
 " faithful to them for thy mercy's sake !" Ano- 
 ther time he said. " Plow wonderful it is, that 
 " God should look upon man; and how much 
 " more wonderful, that he should look upon such 
 " a worm as I am! Yet he does look upon me, 
 41 and takes the exactest notice of all my sufFer- 
 " ings. He is present and I see him (I mean by 
 " faith); and he stretches out his arms towards 
 " me" and he then stretched out his own 
 " and he says Come unto me, all ye, that are 
 " weary and heavy-laden; and I will give you 
 " rest!" He smiled and wept, when he spoke 
 these words. When he expressed himself upon 
 these subjects, there was a weight and a dignity 
 in his manner such as I never saw before. He 
 spoke with the greatest deliberation, making a 
 pause at the end of every sentence; and there 
 was something in his air and in the tone of his 
 voice, inexpressibly solemn, unlike himself, un- 
 like what I had ever seen in another. 
 
 This hath God wrought. I have praised 
 him for his marvellous act, and have felt a joy 
 of heart upon the subject of my brother's death, 
 such as I never felt, but in my own conver- 
 sion. He is now before the throne; and yet a
 
 192 
 
 little while and we shall meet, never more to be 
 divided. 
 
 Yours, my very dear friend, with my affec- 
 tionate respects to yourself, and yours, 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Postscript. A day or two before his death 
 he grew so weak and was so very ill, that he re- 
 quired continual attendance, so, that he had 
 neither strength nor opportunity to say much 
 to me. Only the day before he said he had had 
 a sleepless, but a composed and quiet night. I 
 asked him, if he had been able to collect his 
 thoughts. He replied. " All night long I have 
 " endeavoured to think upon God and to con- 
 " tinue in prayer. I had great peace and com- 
 " fort; and what comfort I had came in that way." 
 When I saw him the next morning at seven 
 o'clock, he was dying, fast asleep, and exempted, 
 in all appearance, from the sense of those pangs, 
 which accompany dissolution. I shall be glad 
 to hear from you, my dear friend, when you 
 can find time to write, and are so inclined. The 
 death of my beloved brother teems with many 
 useful lessons. May God seal the instruction 
 upon our hearts !
 
 19S 
 
 Here it is incumbent on me to introduce a 
 brief account of his brother, who was regarded 
 so tenderly. John Cowper was born in 1737. 
 Being designed for the church, he was privately 
 educated by a clergyman ; and became eminent 
 for the extent and variety of his erudition in the 
 university of Cambridge. His conduct and sen- 
 timents, as a minister of the Gospel, are copi- 
 ously displayed by the poet in recording the 
 remarkable close of his life. Bennet college, of 
 which he was a fellow, was his usual residence, 
 and it became the scene of his death, on the 
 twentieth of March, ] 770. Fraternal affection 
 has executed a perfectly just and graceful de- 
 scription of his character, both in prose and 
 verse. I transcribe both as highly honorable to 
 these exemplary brethren, who may indeed be 
 said, to have dwelt together in unity. 
 
 " He was a man" (says Cowper, in speaking 
 of his deceased Brother) " of a most candid and 
 " ingenuous spirit; his temper remarkably sweet, 
 " and in his behaviour to me he had always ma- 
 " nifested 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 per- 
 " fectly decent and unblamable. There was no- 
 " thing vicious in any part of his practice; but 
 " being of a studious, thoughtful turn, he placed 
 " his chief delight in the acquisition of learning, 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 
 
 " and made such acquisitions in it, that he had 
 " but few rivals in that of 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 
 " understood the French and Italian, the latter 
 " of which he could speak fluently. Learned 
 " however as he was, he was easy and cheerful 
 " in his conversation, and entirely free from 
 " the stiffness, which is generally contracted by 
 " men devoted to such pursuits." 
 
 " I had a Brother once : 
 " Peace to the memory of a man of worth ! 
 " A man of letters, and of manners too ! 
 " Of manners sweet, as Virtue always wears, 
 " When gay Good Humour dresses her in smiles 1 
 " He grac'd a college, in which order yet 
 " Was sacred, and was honor'd, Iov'd, and wept 
 " By more than one, themselves conspicuous there !" 
 
 Another interesting tribute to his memory 
 will be found in the following letter.
 
 195 
 LETTER XXXIII. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 May 8, 1770. 
 DEAR JOE, 
 
 Your letter did not reach me 
 till the last post, when I had not time to an- 
 swer it. I left Cambridge immediately after, my 
 Brother's death. 
 
 I am obliged to you for the particular ac- 
 count you have sent me ********** 
 He, to whom I have surrendered myself, and all 
 my concerns, hath otherwise appointed, 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 difference 
 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 with- 
 out giving him lively and glorious views of a bet- 
 ter happiness, than any, he could propose to him- 
 self, in such a world as this. Notwithstanding 
 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, 
 o 2
 
 196 
 
 Though he could not come into my sentiments, 
 when I first acquainted him with them, nor in 
 the many conversations, which 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 be- 
 gan to study, with the deepest attention, those 
 points, in which we differed, and to furnish him- 
 self with the best writers upon them. His mind 
 was kept open to conviction for five years, dur- 
 ing all which time he laboured in this pursuit 
 with unwearied diligence, as leisure and oppor- 
 tunity were afforded. Amongst his dying words 
 were these, " Brother, I thought you wrong, yet 
 " wanted to believe, as you did. I found my- 
 " self not able to believe, yet always thought I 
 " should be one day brought to do so." From 
 the study of books, he was brought, upon his 
 beath-bed, to the study of himself, and there 
 learnt to renounce his righteousness, and his 
 own most amiable character, and to submit him- 
 self to the righteousness which is of God by 
 faith. With these views he was desirous of 
 death. Satisfied of his interest in the blessing 
 purchased by the blood of Christ, he prayed for 
 death with earnestness, felt the approaches of 
 it with joy, and died in peace. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, 
 
 W. C.
 
 197 
 
 The exquisite sensibility of Cowper could 
 not fail to suffer deeply on the loss of such a 
 Brother; but it is the peculiar blessing of a re- 
 ligious turn of mind, that it serves as an anti- 
 dote against the corrosive influence of sorrow. 
 Devotion, if it had no other beneficial effect on 
 the human character, would be still inestimable 
 to man, as a medicine for the anguish he feels in 
 losing the objects of his affection. How far it 
 proved so in the present case, the reader will be 
 enabled to judge, by a letter, in which Cowper 
 describes his sensations on this awful event, to 
 one of his favorite correspondents. 
 
 LETTER XXXIV. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Olney, June 7, 1770. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 I am obliged to you for some- 
 times thinking of an unseen friend, and bestow- 
 ing a letter upon me. It gives me pleasure to 
 hear from you, especially to find that our gra- 
 cious Lord enables you to weather out the storms 
 you meet with, and to cast anchor within the 
 veil.
 
 198 
 
 You judge rightly of the manner in which I 
 have been affected by the Lord's late dispensa- 
 tion towards my brother. I found in it cause of 
 sorrow, that I had lost so near a relation, and 
 one so deservedly dear to me, and that he left 
 me just when our sentiments, upon the most in- 
 teresting subject, became the same : But much 
 more cause of joy, that it pleased God to give 
 me clear and evident proof, that he had changed 
 his heart, and adopted him into the number of 
 his children. For this, I hold myself peculiarly 
 bound to thank him, because he might have 
 done all, that he was pleased to do for him, and 
 yet have afforded him neither strength nor op- 
 portunity to declare it. I doubt not that he en- 
 lightens the understandings, and works a gra- 
 cious change in the hearts of many, in their last 
 moments, whose surrounding friends are not 
 made acquainted with it. 
 
 He told me, that from the time he was first 
 ordained he began to be dissatisfied with his re- 
 ligious opinions, and to suspect, that there were 
 greater things concealed in the Bible, than were 
 generally believed, or allowed to be there. From 
 the time when I first visited him, after my re- 
 lease from St. Alban's, he began to read upon 
 the subject. It was at that time I informed him 
 of the views of divine truth, which I had re- 
 ceived in that school of affliction. He laid what
 
 199 
 
 I said to heart, and began to furnish himself 
 with the best writers upon the controverted 
 points, whose works he read with great dili- 
 gence and attention, comparing them all the 
 while with the Scripture. None ever truly and 
 ingenuously sought the truth, but they found jt. 
 A spirit of earnest inquiry is the gift of God, 
 who never says to any, seek ye my face, in vain. 
 Accordingly, about ten days before his death, it 
 pleased the Lord to dispel all his doubts, and 
 to reveal in his heart the knowledge of the Sa- 
 viour, and to give him firm and unshaken peace, 
 in the belief of his ability and willingness to 
 save. As to the affair of the fortune-teller, he 
 never mentioned it to me, nor was there any 
 such paper found, as you mention. I looked 
 over all his papers before I left the place, and 
 had there been such a one, must have disco- 
 vered it. I have heard the report from other 
 quarters, but no other particulars, than that the 
 woman foretold him when he should die. I 
 suppose there may be some truth in the matter, 
 but whatever he might think of it, before his 
 knowledge of the truth, and however extraordi- 
 nary her predictions might really be, I am satis- 
 fied that he had then received far other views of 
 the wisdom and majesty of God, than to sup- 
 pose, that he would entrust his secret counsels 
 to a vagrant, who did not mean, I suppose, to
 
 200 
 
 be understood to have received her intelligence 
 
 from the Fountain of Light, but thought herself 
 
 sufficiently honoured by any, who would give 
 
 her credit for a secret intercourse of this kind 
 
 with the Prince of Darkness. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin is much obliged to you for your 
 
 kind inquiry after her. She is well, I thank 
 
 God, as usual, and sends her respects to you. 
 
 Her Son is in the ministry, and has the living 
 
 of Stock, in Essex. We were last week alarmed 
 
 with an account of his being dangerously ill; 
 
 Mrs. Unwin went to see him, and in a few days 
 
 left him out of danger. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The letters of the afflicted poet to his amiable 
 and sympathetic relation have already afforded 
 to my reader an insight into the pure recesses 
 of Cowper's wonderful mind, at some remarks 
 able periods of his life, and if my reader's opi- 
 nion of these letters is consonant to my own, he 
 will feel concerned, as I do, to find a chasm of 
 ten years in this valuable correspondence; the 
 more so as it was chiefly occasioned by a new, 
 a long, and severe visitation of that mental ma- 
 lady, which repeatedly involved in calamitous 
 oppression the superior faculties of this interest- 
 ing sufferer. His extreme depression seems not
 
 201 
 
 to have recurred immediately on the shock of 
 his Brother's death. In the autumn of the year 
 in which he sustained that affecting loss, he 
 wrote the following serious but animated letter 
 to Mr. Hill. 
 
 LETTER XXXV. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Sept. 25, 1/70. 
 DEAR JOE, 
 
 I have not done conversing 
 with terrestrial objects, though I should be hap- 
 py, 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 friend- 
 ships I had contracted in the course of many 
 years, yours excepted, which has survived 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 absolute necessity, 
 without much inconvenience to myself and 
 others. 
 
 W.C.
 
 202 
 
 In his sequestered life, he seems to have 
 been much consoled and entertained by the so- 
 ciety of his pious friend Mr. Newton, in whose 
 religious pursuits he appears to have taken an 
 active part, by the composition of sixty-eight 
 Hymns. Mr. Newton wished and expected him 
 to have contributed a much larger number, as 
 he has declared in the Preface to that collection 
 of Hymns, which contains these devotional ef- 
 fusions of Cowper, distinguished by the initial 
 letter of his name. The volume, composed for 
 the inhabitants of Olney, was the joint produc- 
 tion of the divine and the poet, and intended, 
 as the former expressly says in his Preface, " As 
 " a monument to perpetuate the remembrance 
 " of an intimate and endeared friendship With 
 " this pleasing view" (continues Mr. Newton), " I 
 " entered upon my part, which would have been 
 " smaller than it is, and the book would have 
 M appeared much sooner and in a very different 
 u form, if the wise, though mysterious, Provi- 
 " dence of God, had not seen fit to cross my 
 " wishes. We had not proceeded far upon our 
 " proposed plan, before my dear friend was pre- 
 " vented by a long and affecting indisposition, 
 " from affording me any farther assistance." 
 The severe illness of the poet, to which these 
 expressions relate, began in 1773, and extended, 
 with brief intervals of brighter health, beyond
 
 203 
 
 the date of the Preface (from which they are 
 quoted), February the fifteenth, 1779- 
 
 These social labours of the poet with an ex- 
 emplary man of God, for the purpose of pro- 
 moting simple piety among the lower classes of 
 the people, must have been delightful in a high 
 degree to the benevolent heart of Cowper; and 
 I am persuaded he alludes to his own feelings 
 on this subject, in the following passage from 
 his Poem on Conversation. 
 
 True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos'd 
 
 Of hearts in union, mutually disclos'd : 
 
 And farewell else all hope of pure delight ! 
 
 Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, upright ; 
 
 Bad men, profaning friendship's hallow'd name, 
 
 Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame : 
 
 But souls, that carry on a blest exchange 
 
 Of joys, they meet with, in their heav'nly range, 
 
 And with a fearless confidence make known 
 
 The sorrows, sympathy esteems its own ; 
 
 Daily derive increasing light and force 
 
 From such communion; in their pleasant course, 
 
 Feel less the journey's roughness, and it's length ; 
 
 Meet their opposer's with united strength ; 
 
 And one in heart, in interest, and design, 
 
 Gird up each other to the race divine. 
 
 Such fellowship in literary labour, for the 
 noblest of purposes, must be delightful indeed, 
 if attended with success, and at all events, it is
 
 204 
 
 entitled to respect; yet it may be doubtful if 
 the intense zeal, with which Cowper embarked 
 in this fascinating pursuit, had not a danger- 
 ous tendency to undermine his very delicate 
 health. 
 
 Such an apprehension naturally arises from 
 a recollection of what medical writers of great 
 ability have said on the awful subject of mental 
 derangement. Whenever the slightest tendency 
 to that misfortune appears, it seems expedient 
 to guard a tender spirit from the attractions of 
 Piety herself So fearfully and wonderfully are 
 we made, that man in all conditions ought per- 
 haps to pray, that he never may be led to think 
 of his Creator, and of his Redeemer, either too 
 lightly, or too intensely; since human misery is 
 often seen to arise equally from an utter neglect 
 of all spiritual concerns, and from a wild extra- 
 vagance of devotion. 
 
 But if the charitable and religious zeal of 
 the poet led him into any excesses of devotion, 
 injurious to the extreme delicacy of his nervous 
 system, he is only the more entitled to admira- 
 tion and to pity. Indeed his genius, his virtues, 
 and his misfortunes, were calculated to excite 
 those tender and temperate passions in their 
 purest state, and to the highest degree. It may 
 be questioned, if any mortal could be more sin- 
 cerely beloved and revered, than Cowper was
 
 205 
 
 by those, who were best acquainted with his 
 private hours. 
 
 The season was now arrived, when the firm 
 friendship of Mrs. Unwin was put to the severest 
 of trials, and when her conduct was such, as to 
 deserve those rare rewards of grateful attention 
 and tenderness, which, when she herself became 
 the victim of age and infirmity, she received 
 from that exemplary being, who considered him- 
 self indebted to her friendly vigilance for his 
 life, and who never forgot an obligation, when 
 his mind was itself. 
 
 In 1 773, he sunk into such severe paroxysms 
 of religious despondency, that he required an 
 attendant of the most gentle, vigilant, and in- 
 flexible spirit. Such an attendant he found in 
 that faithful guardian, whom he had professed 
 to love as a mother, and who watched over him, 
 during this long fit of depressive malady, ex- 
 tended through several years, with that perfect 
 mixture of tenderness and fortitude, which con- 
 stitutes the inestimable influence of maternal 
 protection. I wish to pass rapidly over this ca- 
 lamitous period, and shall only observe, that 
 nothing could surpass the sufferings of the pa- 
 tient^ or excel the care of the nurse. For that 
 meritorious care she received from Heaven the 
 most delightful of rewards, in seeing the pure 
 and powerful mind, to whose restoration she
 
 206 
 
 had contributed so much, not only gradually 
 restored to the common enjoyments of life, but 
 successively endowed with new and marvellous 
 funds of diversified talents, and courageous 
 application. 
 
 The spirit of Cowper emerged by slow de- 
 grees from its very deep dejection; and before 
 his mind was sufficiently recovered to employ 
 itself on literary composition, it sought, and 
 found, much salutary amusement in educating a 
 little group of tame hares. On his expressing 
 a wish to divert himself by rearing a single 
 leveret, the good-nature of his neighbours sup- 
 plied him with three. The variety of their dis- 
 positions became a source of great entertain- 
 ment to his compassionate and contemplative 
 spirit. One of the trio he has celebrated in 
 " The Task," and a very animated minute ac- 
 count of this singular family, humanized, and 
 described most admirably by himself, in prose, 
 appeared first in the Gentleman's Magazine, and 
 has been recently inserted in the second volume 
 of his Poems. 
 
 His three tame hares, Mrs. Unwin, and Mr. 
 Newton, were, for a considerable time, the only 
 companions of Cowper; but as Mr. Newton was 
 removed to a distance from his afflicted friend, 
 by preferment in London, to which he was pre- 
 sented by that liberal encourager of active piety,
 
 207 
 
 Mr. Thornton, the friendly divine, before he left 
 Olney, in 1780, humanely triumphed over the 
 strong reluctance of Cowper to see a stranger, 
 and kindly introduced him to the regard and 
 good offices of the Rev. Mr. Bull, of Newport- 
 Pagnell, who, from that time, considering it as 
 a duty to visit the invalide once a fortnight, ac- 
 quired, by degrees, his cordial and confidential 
 esteem. 
 
 The affectionate temper of Cowper inclined 
 him particularly to exert his talents at the re- 
 quest of his friends ; even in seasons, when such 
 exertion could hardly have been made, without 
 a painful degree of self-command. 
 
 At the suggestion of Mr. Newton, we have 
 seen him writing a series of Hymns ; at the re- 
 quest of Mr. Bull, he translated several spiritual 
 Songs from the mystical poetry of Madame de 
 la Mothe Guy on, the tender and fanciful en- 
 thusiast of France, whose talents and misfor- 
 tunes drew upon her a long series of persecution 
 from many acrimonious bigots, and secured to 
 her the friendship of the mild and indulgent 
 Fenelon ! 
 
 We shall perceive, as we advance, that the 
 greater works of Cowper were also written at 
 the express desire of persons, whom he particu- 
 larly regarded; and it may be remarked, to the 
 honor of friendship, that he considered its in
 
 208 
 
 fluence as the happiest inspiration; or, to use 
 his own expressive words, 
 
 The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, 
 Should be the poet's heart ; 
 Affection lights a brighter flame 
 Than ever blaz'd by art. 
 
 
 
 The poetry of Cowper is in itself an admir- 
 able illustration of this maxim ; and perhaps the 
 maxim may point to the prime source of that 
 uncommon force and felicity, with which this 
 most feeling poet commands the affection of his 
 reader. 
 
 In delineating the life of an author, it seems 
 the duty of biography to indicate the degree of 
 influence, which the warmth of his heart pro- 
 duced on the fertility of his mind. But those 
 mingled flames of friendship and poetry, which 
 were to burst forth with the most powerful effect 
 in the compositions of Cowper, were not yet 
 kindled. His depressive malady had suspended 
 the exercise of his genius for several years ; and 
 precluded him from renewing his correspon- 
 dence with the relation, whom he so cordially 
 regarded, in Hertfordshire, except by brief let- 
 ters on pecuniary concerns. 
 
 The first of the letters very kindly imparted 
 to me by Mr. Unwin, (after the first publication 
 of this life,) is a proof that the long-suffering
 
 209 
 
 recluse at Olney had regained, in a great mea- 
 sure, the use of his admirable faculties in the 
 summer of 1778. In beginning to blend the 
 letters to the Rev. William Unwin with the for- 
 mer series of Cowper's correspondence, I cannot 
 refrain from observing, that the affectionate 
 esteem, and unbounded confidence, with which 
 he most deservedly honoured his young and 
 amiable correspondent, give a peculiar charm to 
 these letters, displaying, without a shadow of 
 reserve, the whole heart and mind of the poet. 
 
 LETTER XXXVI. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 June 18, 177S. 
 DEAR UNWIN, 
 
 I feel myself much obliged to 
 you for your kind intimation, and have given 
 the subject of it all my best attention, both be- 
 fore I received your letter, and since. The 
 result is, that I am persuaded it will be better 
 not to write. I know the man and his dispo- 
 sition well, he is very liberal in his way of think- 
 ing, generous, and discerning. He is well aware 
 of the tricks, that are played upon such occa- 
 vol. 1. p
 
 210 
 
 sions, 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 circumstances. It would perhaps give him 
 pleasure to surprise me with a benefit; and if 
 he means me such a favor, I should disappoint 
 him by asking it. 
 
 I repeat my thanks for your suggestion; 
 yoti see a part of my reasons for thus conduct- 
 ing myself; if we were together, I could give 
 
 you more. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 W.C 
 
 The conduct of Cowper towards his early 
 and eminent friend Thurlow, to whom the last 
 letter alludes, was in all seasons of his life a sin- 
 gular mixture of delicate reserve and fervent 
 affection yet painful moments sometimes oc- 
 curred, when the tender recluse imagined, that 
 the busy and illustrious man of the world, who 
 neglected to thank him for the first volume of 
 his Poems, had utterly lost all regard for him.
 
 211 
 
 This was far from being the case : It is true 
 indeed, that a great pressure of business, and 
 some degree of constitutional indolence, con- 
 spired to make Thurlow not so attentive to the 
 associate of his youth, as the friends of each had 
 wished him to be, but the great lawyer ever re- 
 tained for Cowper a most cordial esteem and a 
 very high opinion of his literary talents; in 
 proof of this assertion I shall introduce, in a 
 subsequent part of this work, a few letters from 
 the Chancellor to the Poet. 
 
 LETTER XXXVII. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 May 26, 1779. 
 
 I am obliged to you for the Poets, and 
 though I little thought that I was translating so 
 much money out of your pocket into the book- 
 seller's, when I turned Prior's poem into Latin, 
 yet I must needs say, that, if you think it worth 
 while to purchase the English Classics at all, 
 you cannot possess yourself of them upon better 
 terms. I have looked into some of the vo- 
 lumes, but, not having yet finished the Register, 
 have merely looked into them. A few things I 
 
 p 2
 
 212 
 
 have met m ith, which, if they had been burned 
 the moment they were written, it would have 
 been better for the Author, and at least as well 
 for his readers. There is not much of this, but 
 a little too much. I think it a pity the editor 
 admitted any; the English Muse would have 
 lost no credit by the omission of such trash. 
 Some of them again, seem to me, to have but a 
 very disputable right to a place among the Clas- 
 sics; and I am quite at a loss, when I see them 
 in such company, to conjecture what is Dr. 
 Johnson's idea or definition of classical merit. 
 But if he inserts the poems of some, who can 
 hardly be said to deserve such an honor, the 
 purchaser may comfort himself with the hope. 
 
 that he will exclude none, that do. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER XXXVIII. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Sept. 21, 1779 
 
 Amico mio, be pleased to buy me 
 a glazier's diamond pencil. I have glazed the 
 two frames, designed to receive my pine plants. 
 But I cannot mend the kitchen windows, till by
 
 213 
 
 the help of that implement, I can reduce the 
 glass to its proper dimensions. If I were a 
 plumber, I should be a complete glazier, and 
 possibly the happy time may come, when I shall 
 be seen trudging away to the neighbouring 
 towns with a shelf of glass hanging at my back. 
 If government should impose another tax upon 
 that commodity, I hardly know a business, in 
 which a gentleman might more successfully em- 
 ploy himself. A Chinese, of ten times my for- 
 tune, would avail himself of such an opportunity 
 without scruple; and why should not I, who 
 want money as much as any mandarin in China? 
 Rousseau would have been charmed to have 
 seen me so occupied, and would have exclaimed 
 with rapture, " that he had found the Emilius, 
 " who (he supposed) had subsisted only in his 
 " own idea." I would recommend it to you to 
 follow my example. You will presently qualify 
 yourself for the task, and may not only amuse 
 yourself at home, but may even exercise your 
 skill in mending the church windows; which, 
 as it would save money to the parish, would 
 conduce, together with your other ministerial 
 accomplishments, to make you extremely po- 
 pular in the place. 
 
 I have eight pair of tame pigeons. When I 
 first enter the garden in the morning, I find 
 them perched upon the wall, waiting for their
 
 214 
 
 breakfast, for I feed them always upon the 
 gravel-walk. If your wish should be accom- 
 plished, and you should find yourself furnished 
 with the wings of a dove, I shall undoubtedly 
 find you amongst them. Only be so good, if 
 that should be the case, to announce yourself 
 by some means or other. For I imagine your 
 crop will require something better than tares to 
 fill it. 
 
 Your Mother and I, last week, made a trip 
 in a post-chaise to Gayhurst, the seat of Mr. 
 Wright, about four miles off. He understood 
 that I did not much affect strange faces, and 
 sent over his servant on purpose to inform me, 
 that he was going into Leicestershire, and that, 
 if I chose to see the gardens, I might gratify 
 myself, without danger of seeing the proprietor. 
 I accepted the invitation, and was delighted with 
 all I found there. The situation is happy, the 
 gardens elegantly disposed, the hot-house in the 
 most flourishing state, and the orange-trees the 
 most captivating creatures of the kind I ever 
 saw. A man, in short, had need have the talents 
 of Cox or Langford, the auctioneers, to do the 
 whole scene justice. 
 
 Our love attends you all. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W. C.
 
 215 
 
 LETTER XXXIX. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Oct. 31, 1779- 
 
 WY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I wrote my last letter merely 
 to inform you, that I had nothing to say, in an- 
 swer to which you have said nothing. I admire 
 the propriety of your conduct, though I am a 
 loser by it. I will endeavour to say something 
 now, and shall hope for something in return. 
 
 I have been well entertained with Johnson's 
 biography, for which I thank you : with one ex- 
 ception, and that a swingeing one, I think he 
 has acquitted himself with his usual good sense 
 and sufficiency. His treatment of Milton is un- 
 merciful to the last degree. He has belaboured 
 that great poet's character with the most indus- 
 trious cruelty. As a man, he has hardly left him 
 the shadow of one good quality. Churlishness 
 in his private life, and a rancorous hatred of every 
 thing royal in his public, are the two colours, 
 with which he has smeared all the canvas. If 
 he had any virtues, they are not to be found in 
 the Doctor's picture of him, and it is well fo\
 
 216 
 
 Milton, that some sourness in his temper is the 
 only vice, with which his memory has been 
 charged; it is evident enough, that if his bio- 
 grapher could have discovered more, he would 
 not have spared him. As a poet, he has treated 
 him with severity enough, and has plucked one 
 or two of the most beautiful feathers out of his 
 Muse's wing, and trampled them under his great 
 foot. He has passed sentence of condemnation 
 upon Lycidas, and has taken occasion, from that 
 charming poem, to expose to ridicule (what is 
 indeed ridiculous enough) the childish prattle- 
 ment of pastoral compositions, as if Lycidas was 
 the prototype and pattern of them all. The 
 liveliness of the description, the sweetness of 
 the numbers, the classical spirit of antiquity, 
 that prevails in it, go for nothing. I am con- 
 vinced by the way, that he has no ear for poetical 
 numbers, or that it was stopped, by prejudice, 
 against the harmony of Milton's. Was there 
 ever any thing so delightful as the music of the 
 Paradise Lost? It is like that of a fine organ; 
 has the fullest, and the deepest tones of majesty, 
 with all the softness and elegance of the Dorian 
 flute. Variety without end, and never equalled, 
 unless perhaps by Virgil. Yet the Doctor has 
 little, or nothing, to say upon this copious theme, 
 but talks something about the unfitness of the 
 English language for blank verse, and how apt
 
 217 
 
 it is, in the mouth of some readers, to degene- 
 rate into declamation. 
 
 I could talk a good while longer, but I have 
 no room ; our love attends you. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER XL. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Dec. 1, 1779. 
 
 My dear friend, how quick is 
 the succession of human events ! The cares of to 
 day are seldom the cares of to morrow; and 
 when we lie down at night, we may safely say, 
 to most of our troubles " Ye have done your 
 worst, and we shall meet no more." 
 
 This observation was suggested to me by 
 reading your last letter; which, though I have 
 written since I received it, I have never an- 
 swered. When that epistle passed under your 
 pen, you were miserable about your tithes, and 
 your imagination was hung round with pictures, 
 that terrified you to such a degree, as made even 
 the receipt of money burdensome. But it is 
 all over now. You sent away your farmers in
 
 218 
 
 good humour, (for you can make people merry 
 whenever you please): and now you have no- 
 thing to do, but to chink your purse, and laugh 
 at what is past. Your delicacy makes you groan 
 under that, which other men never feel, or feel 
 but lightly. A fly, that settles upon the tip of 
 the nose, is troublesome ; and this is a compa- 
 rison adequate to the most, that mankind in ge- 
 neral are sensible of, upon such tiny occasions. 
 But the flies, that pester you, always get between 
 your eye-lids, where the annoyance is almost 
 insupportable. 
 
 I would follow your advice, and endeavour 
 to furnish Lord North with a scheme of supplies 
 for the ensuing year, if the difficulty I find in 
 answering the call of my own emergences did not 
 make me despair of satisfying those of the na- 
 tion. I can say but this ; if I had ten acres of 
 land in the world, whereas I have not one, and 
 in those ten acres should discover a gold mine, 
 richer than all Mexico and Peru, when I had 
 reserved a few ounces for my own annual sup- 
 ply, I would willingly give the rest to govern- 
 ment. My ambition would be more gratified 
 by annihilating the national incumbrances, than 
 by going daily down to the bottom of a mine, 
 to wallow in my own emolument. This is pa- 
 triotism you will allow; but, alas, this virtue 
 is for the most part in the hands of those, who
 
 219 
 
 can do no good with it ! He, that has but a 
 single handful of it, catches so greedily at the 
 first opportunity of growing rich, that his pa- 
 triotism drops to the ground, and he grasps the 
 gold instead of it. He (hat never meets with 
 such an opportunity holds it fast, in his clenched 
 fist, and says " Oh, how much good I A\ r ould 
 do, if I could!" 
 
 Your Mother says " Pray send my dear 
 Jove." There is hardly room to add mine, but 
 you will suppose it. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W.C. 
 
 LETTER XLI. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN, 
 
 Feb. 17, 1 760. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 As you are pleased to desire 
 my letters, I am the more pleased with writing 
 them, though, at the same time, I must needs 
 testify my surprise, that you should think them 
 worth receiving, as I ^eldom send one, that I 
 think favorably of myself. This is not to be 
 understood as an imputation upon your taste
 
 220 
 
 or judgment, but as an encomium upon my own 
 modesty and humility, which I desire you to 
 remark well. It is a just observation of Sir Jo- 
 shua Reynolds, that though men of ordinary 
 talents may be highly satisfied with their own 
 productions, men of true genius never are. 
 Whatever be their subject, they always seem to 
 themselves, to fall short of it, even when they 
 seem to others most to excel. And for this rea- 
 son because they have a certain sublime sense 
 of perfection, which other men are strangers to, 
 and which they themselves in their perform- 
 ances, are not able to exemplify. Your servant, 
 Sir Joshua ! I little thought of seeing you when 
 I began, but as you have popped in, j^ou are 
 welcome. 
 
 When I wrote last, I was a little inclined to 
 send you a copy of verses entitled the Modern 
 Patriot, but was not quite pleased with a line or 
 two, which I found it difficult to mend, there- 
 fore did not. At night I read Mr. Burke's speech 
 in the newspaper, and was so well pleased with 
 his proposals for a reformation, and the temper 
 in which he made them, that I began to think 
 better of his cause, and burnt my verses. Such 
 is the lot of the man, who writes upon the sub- 
 ject of the day ; the aspect of affairs changes in 
 an hour or two, and his opinion with it; what 
 was just and well deserved satire in the morn-
 
 221 
 
 ing, in the evening becomes a libel : the author 
 commences his own judge, and while he con- 
 demns with unrelenting severity, what he so 
 lately approved, is sorry to find, that he has laid 
 his leaf-gold upon touch-wood, which crumbled 
 away under his fingers. Alas! What can I do 
 with my wit? I have not enough to do great 
 things with, and these little things are so fugi- 
 tive, that while a man catches at the subject, he 
 is only filling his hand with smoke. I must do 
 with it, as I do with my linnet ; I keep him for 
 the most part in a cage, but now and then set 
 open the door, that he may whisk about the 
 room a little, and then shut him up again. My 
 whisking wit has produced the following, the 
 subject of which is more important, than the 
 manner in which I have treated it, seems to im- 
 ply, but a fable may speak truth, and all truth 
 is sterling; I only premise, that in the philoso- 
 phical tract in the Register, I found it as- 
 serted, that the glow-worm is the nightingale's 
 food # . 
 
 An officer of a regiment, part of which is 
 quartered here, gave one of the soldiers leave to 
 be drunk six weeks, in hopes of curing him by 
 
 satiety he was drunk six weeks, and is so 
 
 still, as often as he can find an opportunity. 
 
 * This Letter contained the beautiful fable of the Night- 
 ingale and the Glow-worm.
 
 12522 
 
 One vice may swallow up another, but no co- 
 roner, in the state of Ethics, ever brought in 
 his verdict, when a vice died, that it was 
 Jelo de sc. 
 
 Thanks for all you have done, and all you 
 intend; the biography will be particularly wel- 
 come. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W. C, 
 
 LETTER XLII. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 March 18, 1/80. 
 
 I am obliged to you for the commu- 
 nication of your correspondence with It 
 
 was impossible for any man, of any temper what- 
 ever, and however wedded to his own purpose, 
 to resent so gentle and friendly an exhortation 
 as you sent him. Men of lively imaginations 
 are not often remarkable for solidity of judg- 
 ment. They have generally strong passions to 
 bias it, and are led far away from their proper 
 road, in pursuit of petty phantoms of their own 
 creating. No law ever did or can effect what 
 he has ascribed to that of Moses; it is reserved
 
 223 
 
 for mercy to subdue the corrupt inclinations of 
 mankind, which threatenings, and penalties, 
 through the depravity of the hearty have always 
 had a tendency rather to inflame. 
 
 The love of power seems as natural to 
 kings, as the desire of liberty is to their sub- 
 jects; the excess of either is vicious, and tends 
 to the ruin of both. There are many, I be- 
 lieve, who wish the present corrupt state of 
 things dissolved, in hope, that the pure primi- 
 tive constitution will spring up from the ruins, 
 liut it is not for man, by himself man, to bring 
 order out of confusion : the progress from one 
 to the other is not natural, much less neces- 
 sary, and without the intervention of divine 
 aid, impossible; and they, who are for making 
 the hazardous experiment, would certainly find 
 themselves disappointed. 
 
 Affectionately yours, 
 
 W. C.
 
 224 
 LETTER XLIII. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 March 28, 1/80. 
 
 My dear friend, I have heard no- 
 thing more from Mr. Newton, upon the subject 
 you mention; but I dare say, that, having been 
 given to expect the benefit of your nomination 
 in behalf of his nephew, he still depends upon 
 
 it. His obligations to Mr. have been so 
 
 numerous, and so weighty, that though he has, 
 in a few instances, prevailed upon himself to 
 recommend an object, now and then, to his pa- 
 tronage, he has very sparingly, if at all, ex- 
 erted his interest with him in behalf of his. own 
 relations. 
 
 With respect to the advice you are required 
 to give to a young lady, that she may be pro- 
 perly instructed in the manner of keeping the 
 sabbath, I just subjoin a few hints, that have 
 occurred to me upon the occasion, not be- 
 cause I think vou want them, but because it 
 would seem unkind to withhold them. The 
 sabbath then, I think, may be considered, first, 
 as a commandment, no less binding upon mo- 
 dern Christians, than upon ancient Jews, be-
 
 225 
 
 cause the spiritual people amongst them did not 
 think it enough, to abstain from manual occu- 
 pations upon that day, but, entering more deeply 
 into the meaning of the precept, allotted those 
 hours, they took from the world, to the cultiva- 
 tion of holiness in their own souls, which ever 
 was, and ever will be, a duty incumbent upon 
 all, who ever heard of a sabbath, and is of per- 
 petual obligation both upon Jews and Chris- 
 tians; (the commandment, therefore, enjoins it; 
 the prophets have also enforced it; and in many 
 instances, both scriptural and modern, the breach 
 of it has been punished with a providential and 
 judicial severity, that may make by-standers 
 tremble): secondly, as a privilege, which you 
 well know how to dilate upon, better than I 
 can tell you: thirdly, as a sign of that cove- 
 nant, by which believers are entitled to a rest, 
 that yet remaineth : fourthly, as the sine qua non 
 of the Christian character; and upon this head 
 I should guard against being misunderstood to 
 mean no more than two attendances upon public 
 worship, which is a form complied with by 
 thousands, who never kept a sabbath in their 
 lives. Consistence is necessary, to give sub- 
 stance and solidity to the whole. To sanc- 
 tify the day at church, and to trifle it away 
 out of church, is profanation, and vitiates all. 
 After all, could I ask my catechumen one 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 
 
 short question " Do you love the day, or do 
 " you not? If you love it, you will never in- 
 " quire, how far you may safely deprive yourself 
 " of the enjoyment of it. If you do not love it, 
 " and you find yourself obliged in conscience 
 " to acknowledge it, that is an alarming symp- 
 " torn, and ought to make you tremble. If you 
 " do not love it, then it is a weariness to you, 
 " and you wish it was over. The ideas of la- 
 " bour and rest are not more opposite to each 
 11 other, than the idea of a sabbath, and that dis- 
 " like and disgust with which it fills the souls 
 " of thousands to be obliged to keep it. It is 
 " worse than bodily labour." 
 
 \y. c. 
 
 LETTER XLVI. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 April 6, 1^80. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I never was, any more than 
 yourself, a friend to pluralities, they are gene- 
 rally found in the hands of the avaricious, whose 
 insatiable hunger after preferment proves them 
 unworthy of any at all. They attend much to 
 the regular payment of their dues, but not at all
 
 227 
 
 to the spiritual interest of their parishioners. 
 Having forgot their duty, or never known it, 
 they differ in nothing from the laity, except 
 their outward garb, and their exclusive right to 
 the desk and pulpit. But when pluralities seek 
 the man, instead of being sought by him ; and 
 when the man is honest, conscientious, and 
 pious; careful to employ a substitute, in those 
 respects like himself; and, not contented with 
 this, will see with his own eyes, that the con- 
 cerns of his parishes are decently and diligently 
 administered; in that case, considering the pre- 
 sent dearth of such characters in the ministry, 
 I think it an event advantageous to the people, 
 and much to be desired by all who regret the 
 great and apparent want of sobriety and ear- 
 nestness among the clergy. A man, who does 
 not seek a living merely as a pecuniary emolu- 
 ment, has no need, in my judgment, to refuse 
 one because it is so. He means to do his duty, 
 and by doing it, he earns his wages. The two 
 rectories being contiguous to each other, and 
 following easily under the care of one pastor, 
 and both so near to Stock, that you can visit 
 them without difficulty, as often as you please, 
 I see no reasonable objection, nor does your 
 Mother. As to the wry-mouthed sneers, and 
 illiberal misconstructions of the censorious, I 
 
 q 2
 
 228 
 
 know no better shield to guard you against 
 them, than what you are already furnished with 
 a clear and unoffended conscience. 
 
 I am obliged to you for what you said upon 
 the subject of book-buying, and am very fond of 
 availing myself of another man's pocket, when 
 I can do it creditably to myself, and without 
 injury to him. Amusements are necessary, in a 
 retirement like mine, especially in such a sable 
 state of mind as I labour under. The necessity 
 of amusement makes me sometimes write verses 
 -it made me a carpenter, a bird-cage maker, a 
 gardener and has lately taught me to draw, 
 and to draw too with such surprising profici- 
 ency in the art, considering my total ignorance 
 of it two months ago, that, when I show your 
 Mother my productions, she is all admiration 
 and applause. 
 
 ")fou need never fear the communication of 
 what you entrust to us in confidence. You 
 know your Mother's delicacy in this point suf- 
 ficiently; and as for me, I once wrote a Con- 
 noisseur upon the subject of secret keeping, and 
 from that day to this I believe I have never di- 
 vulged one. 
 
 We are much pleased with Mr. Newton's ap- 
 plication to you for a charity sermon, and what 
 he said upon that subject in his last letter, " that
 
 229 
 
 " he was glad of an opportunity to give you that 
 " proof of his regard." 
 
 Believe me yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER XLV. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, April 16, 1780. 
 
 Since I wrote last we have had 
 a visit from . I did not feel myself vehe- 
 mently disposed to receive him with that com- 
 plaisance, from which a stranger generally in- 
 fers, that he is welcome. By his manner, which 
 was rather bold than easy, I judged that there 
 was no occasion for it, and that it was a trifle, 
 which, if he did not meet with, neither would 
 he feel the want of. He has the air of a tra- 
 velled man, but not of a travelled gentleman; 
 is quite delivered from that reserve, which is so 
 common an ingredient in the English character, 
 yet does not open himself gently and gradually, 
 as men of polite behaviour do, but bursts upon 
 you all at once. He talks very loud, and when 
 our poor little robins hear a great noise, they are
 
 230 
 
 immediately seized with an ambition to surpass 
 it the increase of their vociferation occasioned 
 an increase of his, and his in return acted as a 
 stimulus upon theirs neither side entertained 
 a thought of giving up the contest, which be- 
 came continually more interesting to our ears, 
 during the whole visit. The birds however sur- 
 vived it, and so did we. They, perhaps, flatter 
 themselves, they gained a complete victory, but 
 I believe Mr. would have killed them both 
 
 in another hour. 
 
 W.C. 
 
 LETTER XLVI. 
 
 TO THE REV, JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 May 3, 1780. 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 You indulge me in such a va- 
 riety of subjects, and allow me such a latitude 
 of excursion in this scribbling employment, that 
 I have no excuse for silence. I am much obliged 
 to you, for swallowing such boluses, as I send 
 you, for the sake of my gilding, and verily be- 
 lieve, I am the only man alive, from whom they 
 would be welcome to a palate like yours. I wish 
 I could make them more splendid, than they
 
 231 
 
 are, more alluring to the eye, at least, if not 
 more pleasing to the taste; but my leaf-gold is 
 tarnished, and has received such a tinge from 
 the vapours, that are ever brooding over my 
 mind, that I think it no small proof of your par- 
 tiality to me, that you will read my letters. I 
 am not fond of longwinded metaphors, I have 
 always observed, that they halt at the latter end 
 of their progress, and so does mine. I deal 
 much in ink indeed, but not such ink as is em- 
 ployed by poets, and writers of essays. Mine 
 is a harmless fluid, and guilty of no deceptions, 
 but such as may prevail, without the least in- 
 jury to the person imposed on. I draw moun- 
 tains, valleys, Avoods, and streams, and ducks, 
 and dab-chicks. I admire them myself, and 
 Mrs. Unwin admires them; and her praise and 
 my praise put together are fame enough for me. 
 O! I could spend whole days, and moonlight 
 nights, in feeding upon a lovely prospect ! My 
 eyes drink the rivers as they flow. If every 
 human being upon Earth could think for one 
 quarter of an hour, as I have done for many 
 years, there might, perhaps, be many miserable 
 men among them, but not an unwakened one 
 would be found, from the Arctic to the Ant- 
 arctic circle. At present, the difference be- 
 tween them and me is greatly to their advan- 
 tage. I delight in baubles, and know them to
 
 232 
 
 be so; for rested in, and viewed without a re- 
 ference to their author, what is the Earth, what 
 are the planets, what is the sun itself, but a bau- 
 ble? Better for a man never to have seen them, 
 or to see them with the eyes of a brute, stupid 
 and unconscious of what he beholds, than not 
 to be able to say, " The maker of all these won- 
 ders is my friend !" Their eyes have never been 
 opened, to see that they are trifles; mine have 
 been, and will be till they are closed for ever. 
 They think a fine estate, a large conservatory, 
 a hothouse rich as a West-Indian garden, things 
 of consequence ; visit them with pleasure, and 
 muse upon them with ten times more. I am 
 pleased with a frame of four lights, doubtful 
 whether the few pines it contains will ever be 
 worth a farthing;; amuse mvself with a green- 
 house, which Lord Bute's gardener could take 
 upon his back, and walk away with ; and when 
 I have paid it the accustomed visit, and watered 
 it, and given it air, I say to myself " This is 
 " not mine, 'tis a plaything lent me for the pre* 
 " sent, I must leave it soon/' 
 
 W.C. 
 
 %
 
 233 
 
 LETTER XLVII. 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, May 6, 178Q. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I am much obliged to you 
 for your speedy answer to my queries. I know 
 less of the law than a country attorney, yet 
 sometimes I think I have almost as much busi- 
 ness. My former connexion with the profession 
 has got wind, and though Ijearnestly profess, 
 and protest, and proclaim it abroad, that I know 
 nothing of the matter, they cannot be persuaded 
 to believe, that a head once endowed with a 
 legal periwig can ever be deficient in those na- 
 tural endowments, it is supposed to cover. I 
 have had the good fortune to be once or twice 
 in the right, which, added to the cheapness of a 
 gratuitous counsel, has advanced my credit to 
 a degree I never expected to attain in the capa- 
 city of a lawyer. Indeed, if two of the wisest 
 in the science of jurisprudence may give oppo- 
 site opinions on the same point, which does not 
 unfrequently happen, it seems to be a matter of 
 indifference, whether a man answers by rule, or 
 at a venture, He that stumbles upon the right
 
 234 
 
 side of the question is just as useful to his client, 
 as he that arrives at the same end by regular 
 approaches, and is conducted to the mark he 
 aims at by the greatest authorities. 
 
 These violent attacks of a distemper so often 
 fatal are very alarming, to all who esteem and 
 respect the Chancellor, as he deserves. A life 
 of confinement, and of anxious attention to im- 
 portant objects, where the habit is bilious to 
 such a terrible degree, threatens to be but a 
 short one; and I wish he may not be made a 
 text, for men of^reflection, to moralise upon, 
 affording a conspicuous instance of the tran- 
 sient and fading nature of all human accom- 
 plishments and attainments. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 W. C.
 
 235 
 LETTER XL VIII. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 May 8, 1780. 
 31Y DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 My scribbling humour has 
 of late been entirely absorbed in the passion for 
 landscape drawing. It is a most amusing art, 
 and, like every other art, requires much prac- 
 tice, and attention. 
 
 Nil sine raulto 
 Vita labore dedit mortalibus. 
 
 Excellence is providentially placed beyond the 
 reach of indolence, that success may be the re- 
 ward of industry, and that idleness may be pu- 
 nished with obscurity and disgrace. So long as 
 I am pleased with an employment, I am capable 
 of unwearied application, because my feelings 
 are all of the intense kind. I never received a 
 little pleasure from any thing in my life; if-X 
 am delighted, it is in the extreme. The unhappy 
 consequence of this temperature is, that my at- 
 tachment to any occupation seldom outlives the 
 novelty of it. That nerve of my imagination, 
 that feels the touch of any particular amuse-
 
 236 ' 
 
 ment, twangs under the energy of the pressure 
 with so much vehemence, that it soon becomes 
 sensible of weariness and fatigue. Hence I 
 draw an unfavorable prognostic, and expect 
 that I shall shortty be constrained to look out 
 for something else. Then, perhaps, I ma)' string 
 the harp again, and be able to comply with your 
 demand. 
 
 Now for the visit you propose to pay us, and 
 propose not to pay us : the hope of which plays 
 upon your paper, like a jack-o-lantern upon the 
 ceiling. This is no mean simile, for Virgil (you 
 remember) uses it. 'Tis here, 'tis there, it va- 
 nishes, it returns, it dazzles you, a cloud inter- 
 poses, and it is gone. However just the com- 
 parison, I hope you will contrive to spoil it, and 
 that vour final determination will be to come. 
 As to the masons you expect, bring them with 
 you bring brick, bring mortar, bring every 
 thing, that would oppose itself to your journey 
 s all shall be welcome. I have a greenhouse 
 that is too small, come and enlarge it; build me 
 a pinery; repair the garden-wall, that has great 
 need of your assistance; do any thing, you can 
 not do too much ; so far from thinking you, and 
 your train, troublesome, we shall rejoice to see 
 you, upon these, or upon any other terms you 
 can propose. But to be serious you will do 
 well to consider, that a long summer is before
 
 237 
 
 you that the party will not have such another 
 opportunity to meet, this great while; that you 
 may finish your masonry long enough before 
 winter, though you should not begin this month, 
 but that you cannot always find your Brother 
 and Sister Powley at Olney. These, and some 
 other considerations, such as the desire we have 
 to see you, and the pleasure we expect from see- 
 ing you all together, may, and, I think, ought 
 to overcome your scruples. 
 
 From a general recollection of Lord Claren- 
 don's History of the Rebellion, I thought (and 
 I remember, I told you so), that there was a 
 striking resemblance between that period and 
 the present. But I am now reading, and have 
 read, three volumes of Hume's History, one of 
 which, is engrossed entirely by that subject. 
 There, I see reason to alter my opinion, and 
 the seeming resemblance has disappeared upon 
 a more particular information. Charles suc- 
 ceeded to a long train of arbitrary princes, whose 
 subjects had tamely acquiesced in the despotism 
 of their masters, till their privileges were all for- 
 got. He did but tread in their steps, and ex- 
 emplify the principles, in which he had been 
 brought up, when he oppressed his people. But 
 just at that time, unhappily for the monarch, 
 the subject began to see, and to see that he had 
 a right to property and freedom. This marks a
 
 238 
 
 sufficient difference between the disputes of that 
 clay and the present. But there was another 
 main cause of that rebellion, which, at this time, 
 does not operate at all. The king was devoted 
 to the hierarchy; his subjects were puritans, 
 and would not bear it. Every circumstance of 
 ecclesiastical order and discipline was an abomi- 
 nation to them, and in his esteem, an indispens- 
 able duty. And though at last he was obliged 
 to give up many things, he would not abolish 
 episcopacy, and till that were done, his conces- 
 sions could have no conciliating effect. These 
 two concurring causes were indeed sufficient to 
 set three kingdoms in a flame. But they subsist 
 not now, nor any other, I hope, notwithstand- 
 ing the bustle made by the patriots, equal to the 
 production of such terrible events. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 At this time Cowper's attention was irre- 
 sistibly recalled to his cousin, Mrs. Cowper, by 
 hearing that she was deeply afflicted; and he 
 wrote to her the following letter, on the loss of 
 her brother, Frederic Madan, a soldier, who died 
 in America, after having distinguished himself 
 by poetical talents, as well as by military vir- 
 tues.
 
 239 
 
 LETTER XLIX. 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 May 10, 1780. 
 3HY DEAR COUSIN", 
 
 I do not write to comfort 
 you: that office is not likely to be well per- 
 formed by one who has no comfort for himself; 
 nor to comply with an impertinent ceremony, 
 which in general might well be spared upon 
 such occasions: but because I would not seem 
 indifferent to the concerns of those, I have so 
 much reason to esteem and love. If I did not 
 sorrow for your Brother's death, I should ex- 
 pect that nobody would for mine ; when I knew 
 him, he was much beloved, and I doubt not 
 continued to be so. To live and die together, 
 is the lot of a few happy families, who hardly 
 know what a separation means, and one sepul- 
 chre serves them all; but the ashes of our 
 kindred are dispersed indeed. Whether the 
 American gulf has swallowed up any other of 
 my relations, I know not; it has made many 
 mourners. 
 
 Believe me, my dear Cousin, though after a 
 long silence, which perhaps, nothing less than
 
 240 
 
 the present concern, could have prevailed with 
 rae to interrupt, as much as ever, 
 
 Your affectionate kinsman, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER L. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 May 10, 1780 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 If authors could have lived 
 to adjust and authenticate their own text, a 
 commentator would have heen an useless crea- 
 ture. For instance if Dr. Bentley had found, 
 or opined that he had found, the word tube, 
 where it seemed to present itself to you, and 
 had judged the subject worthy of his critical 
 acumen, he would either have justified the cor- 
 rupt reading, or have substituted some invention 
 of his own, in defence of which he would have 
 exerted all his polemical abilities, and have 
 quarrelled with half the literati in Europe. Then 
 suppose the writer himself, as in the present case, 
 
 to interpose, with a gentle whisper, thus 
 
 " If you look again, Doctor, you will perceive, 
 " that what appears to you to be tube, is nei-
 
 241 
 
 " ther more, nor less, than the monosyllable ink, 
 " but I wrote it in great haste, and the want of 
 " sufficient precision in the character has occa- 
 " sioned your mistake : you will be especially 
 " satisfied, when you see the sense elucidated 
 " by the explanation." But I question whether 
 the doctor would quit his ground, or allow any 
 author to be a competent judge in his own case. 
 The world, however, would acquiesce imme- 
 diately, and vote the critic useless. 
 
 James Andrews, who is my Michael Angelo, 
 pays me many compliments on my success in 
 the art of drawing, but I have not yet the va- 
 nity to think myself qualified to furnish your 
 apartment. If I should ever attain to the de- 
 gree of self-opinion, requisite to such an under- 
 taking, I shall labour at it with pleasure. I can 
 only say, though I hope not with the affected 
 modesty of the above-mentioned Dr. Bentley, 
 who said the same thing, 
 
 Me quoque dictint 
 Vatem pastores. Sed non Ego credulus illis. 
 
 A crow, rook, or raven, has built a nest in 
 one of the young elm-trees, at the side of Mrs. 
 Aspray's orchard. In the violent storm, that 
 blew yesterday morning, I saw it agitated to a 
 degree, that seemed to threaten its immediate 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 
 
 destruction, and versified the following thoughts 
 
 upon the occasion*. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER LI. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 June 8, 17 60. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 It is possible I might have 
 indulged myself in the pleasure of writing to 
 you, without waiting for a letter from you, but 
 for a reason, which you will not easily guess. 
 Your Mother communicated to me the satisfac- 
 tion you expressed in my correspondence, that 
 you thought me entertaining and clever, and so 
 forth : now you must know, I love praise dearly, 
 especially from the judicious, and those who 
 have so much delicacy themselves, as not to of- 
 fend mine in giving it. But then, I found this 
 consequence attending, or likely to attend, the 
 
 eulogium you bestowed if my friend thought 
 
 me witty before, he shall think me ten times 
 
 more witty hereafter where I joked once, I 
 
 will joke five times, and, for one sensible re- 
 
 * Cowper's Fable of the Raven concluded this letter.
 
 243 
 
 mark, I will send him a dozen. Now this foolish 
 vanity would have spoiled me quite, and would 
 have made me as disgusting a letter-writer as 
 Pope, who seems to have thought, that unless a 
 sentence was well turned, and every period 
 pointed with some conceit, it was not worth the 
 carriage. Accordingly he is to me, except in a 
 very few instances, the most disagreeable maker 
 of epistles, that ever I met with. I was willing, 
 therefore, to wait till the impression your com- 
 mendation had made upon the foolish part of 
 me was worn off, that I might scribble away as 
 usual, and write my uppermost thoughts, and 
 those only. 
 
 You are better skilled in ecclesiastical law 
 than I am Mrs. P. desires me to inform her, 
 whether a parson can be obliged to take an ap- 
 prentice. For some of her husband's opposers, 
 
 at D , threaten to clap one upon him. Now 
 
 I think it would be rather hard, if clergymen, 
 who are not allowed to exercise any handicraft 
 whatever, should be subject to such an imposi- 
 tion. If Mr. P. was a cordwainer, or a breeches- 
 maker, all the week, and a preacher only on 
 Sundays, it would seem reasonable enough, in 
 that case, that he should take an apprentice, if 
 he chose it. But even then, in my poor judg- 
 ment, he ought to be left to his option. If they 
 mean by an apprentice, a pupil, whom they will 
 
 r 2
 
 244 
 
 oblige him to hew into a parson, and after chip- 
 ping away the block that hides the minister 
 within, to qualify him to stand erect in a pul- 
 pit that indeed, is another consideration But 
 still, we live in a free country, and I cannot 
 bring myself even to suspect, that an English 
 divine can possibly be liable to such compul- 
 sion. Ask your Uncle however : for he is wiser 
 in these things, than either of us. 
 
 I thank you for your two inscriptions, and 
 like the last the best; the thought is just, and 
 fine but the two last lines are sadly damaged, 
 by the monkish jingle of peperit and reperit. 
 I have not yet translated them, nor do I promise 
 to do it, though at some idle hour perhaps I 
 may. In return, I send you a translation of a 
 simile in the Paradise Lost. Not having that 
 Poem at hand, I cannot refer you to the book 
 and page, but you may hunt for it, if you think 
 it worth your while. It begins 
 
 " So when, from mountain tops, the dusky clouds 
 " Ascending, &c." 
 
 Quales aerii montis de vertice nubes 
 
 Cum surgunt, et jam Boreae tumida ora quierunt, 
 
 Caelum hilares abdit, spissa caligine, vultus : 
 
 Turn si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore, 
 
 Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat, 
 
 Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agro, 
 
 Balatuque ovium colles, \'allesque resultant.
 
 245 
 
 If you spy any fault in my Latin, tell me, 
 for I am sometimes in doubt, but as I told you, 
 when you was here, I have not a Latin book in 
 the world to consult, or correct a mistake by ; 
 and some years have past since I was a school- 
 boy. , 
 
 AN ENGLISH VERSIFICATION OF A THOUGHT, 
 
 THAT POPPED INTO MY HEAD, ABOUT 
 
 TWO MONTHS SINCE. 
 
 Sweet stream ! that winds through yonder glade- 
 
 Apt emblem of a virtuous maid! 
 
 Silent, and chaste, she steals along, 
 
 Far from the world's gay, busy throng ; 
 
 With gentle, yet prevailing force, 
 
 Intent upon her destin'd course : 
 
 Graceful, and useful, all she does, 
 
 Blessing, and blest, where'er she goes : 
 
 Pure-bosom'd, as that watery glass, 
 
 And Heav'n reflected in her face ! 
 
 Now this is not so exclusively applicable to 
 a maiden, as to be the sole property of your 
 Sister Shuttleworth. If you look at Mrs. Un- 
 win, you will see, that she has not lost her right 
 to this just praise by marrying you. 
 
 Your Mother sends her love to all, and mine 
 comes jogging along by the side of it. 
 
 Yours. 
 
 W. C.
 
 U6 
 
 LETTER LII. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 June 12, 1780. 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 We accept it as an effort of your 
 friendship, that you could prevail with yourself, 
 in a time of such terror and distress, to send us 
 repeated accounts of yours and Mrs. Newton's 
 welfare; you supposed, with reason enough, 
 that Ave should be apprehensive for your safety, 
 situated, as you were, apparently, within the 
 reach of so much danger. We rejoice that you 
 have escaped it all, and that, except the anxiety, 
 which you must have felt, both for yourselves 
 and others, you have suffered nothing upon this 
 dreadful occasion. A metropolis in flames, and 
 a nation in ruins, are subjects of contemplation 
 for such a mind as yours, that will leave a last- 
 ing impression behind them. It is well that the 
 design died in the execution, and will be bu- 
 ried, I hope never to rise again, in the ashes of 
 its own combustion. There is a melancholy 
 pleasure, in looking back upon such a scene, 
 arising from a comparison of possibilities with
 
 247 
 
 facts; the enormous bulk of the intended mis- 
 chief, with the abortive and partial accomplish- 
 ment of it; much was done, more indeed than 
 could have been supposed practicable in a well- 
 regulated city, not unfurnished with a military 
 force for its protection. But surprise and asto- 
 nishment seem at first to have struck every 
 nerve of the police with a palsy; and to have 
 disarmed government of all its powers. 
 
 I congratulate you upon the wisdom, that 
 withheld you from entering yourself a member 
 of the Protestant association. Your friends, 
 who did so, have reason enough to regret their 
 doing it, even though they should never be 
 called upon. Innocent as they are, and they 
 who know them cannot doubt of their being 
 perfectly so, it is likely to bring an odium on 
 the profession they make, that will not soon be 
 forgotten. Neither is it possible, for a quiet, 
 inoffensive man, to discover, on a sudden, that 
 his zeal has carried him into such company, 
 without being to the last degree shocked at his 
 imprudence. Their religion was an honorable 
 mantle, like that of Elijah; but the majority 
 wore cloaks of Guy Fawkes's time, and meant 
 nothing so little as what they pretended. 
 
 W. C.
 
 248 
 LETTER LIII. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 June 18, J /SO. 
 
 Reverend, and dear William, 
 the affairs of kingdoms, and the concerns of in- 
 dividuals, are variegated alike with the checker- 
 work of joy and sorrow. The news of a great 
 acquisition in America has succeeded to terrible 
 tumults in London; and the beams of prosperity 
 are now playing upon the smoke of that confla- 
 gration, which so lately terrified the whole land. 
 These sudden changes, which are matter of every 
 man's observation, and may therefore always be 
 reasonably expected, serve to hold up the chin 
 of despondency above water, and preserve man- 
 kind in general from the sin and misery of ac- 
 counting existence a burden not to be endured 
 an evil, we should be sure to encounter, if we were 
 not warranted to look for a bright reverse of our 
 most afflictive experiences. The Spaniards were 
 sick of the war, at the very commencement of 
 it; and I hope that, by this time, the French 
 themselves begin to find themselves a little in- 
 disposed, if not desirous of peace, which that 
 restless and meddling temper of theirs is inca-
 
 249 
 
 pableof desiring for its own sake. But is it 
 true, that this detestable plot was an egg laid in 
 France, and hatched in London, under the in- 
 fluence of French corruption? Nam te scire y 
 deos quoniam propius contingis, oportet. The 
 offspring has the features of such a parent; and 
 yet, without the clearest proof of the fact, I 
 would not willingly charge upon a civilized na- 
 tion, what perhaps the most barbarous would 
 abhor the thought of. I no sooner saw the 
 surmise however in the paper, than I immedi- 
 ately began to write Latin verses upon the oc- 
 casion. " An odd effect," you will say, " of such 
 a circumstance :" But an effect, nevertheless, 
 that whatever has, at any time, moved my pas- 
 sions, whether pleasantly, or otherwise, has al- 
 ways had upon me: were I to express what I 
 feel upon such occasions in prose, it would be 
 verbose, inflated, and disgusting. I therefore 
 have recourse to verse, as a suitable vehicle for 
 the most vehement expressions my thoughts 
 suggest to me. What I have written, I did not 
 write so much for the comfort of the English, 
 as for the mortification of the French. You will 
 immediately perceive, therefore, that I have 
 been labouring in vain, and that this bouncing 
 explosion is likely to spend itself in the air. 
 For I have no means of circulating what fol- 
 lows through all the French territories; and un-
 
 250 
 
 less that, or something like it, can be done, my 
 indignation will be entirely fruitless. Tell me 
 how I can convey it into Sartine's pocket, or 
 who will lay it upon his desk for me. But read 
 it first, and unless you think it pointed enough 
 to sting the Gaul to the quick, burn it. 
 
 In seditionem horrendam, corruptelis Gallicis, utfcrtur, 
 Londini nuper exortam. 
 
 Perfidia, crudelis, victa et lymphata furore, 
 
 Non a/mis, laurum Gallia fraude petit. 
 Venalera pretio plebem conducit, et urit 
 
 Undique privatas patriciasque domos. 
 Nequicquam conata sua, fcedissima sperat 
 
 Posse tamen nostra nos superare manu. 
 Gallia, vana stmis ! Precibus nunc utere ! Vinces, 
 
 Nam mites timidis, supplicibusque sumus. 
 
 I have lately exercised my ingenuity in con- 
 triving an exercise for yours, and have com- 
 posed a Riddle, which, if it does not make you 
 laugh before you have solved it, will probably 
 do it afterwards. I would transcribe it now, 
 but am really so fatigued with writing, that un- 
 less I knew you had a quinsy, and that a fit of 
 laughter might possibly save your life, I could 
 not prevail with myself to do it.
 
 251 
 
 What could you possibly mean, slender as 
 you are, by sallying out upon your two walking 
 sticks at two in the morning, in the midst of 
 such a tumult? We admire your prowess, but 
 cannot commend your prudence. 
 
 Our love attends you all, collectively and 
 
 individually. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER LIV. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 June 22, 17SO. 
 
 My dear friend, a word or two in 
 answer to two or three questions of yours, which 
 I have hitherto taken no notice of. I am not 
 in a scribbling mood, and shall therefore make 
 no excursions to amuse either myself or you. 
 The needful will be as much as I can manage at 
 present the playful must wait another oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 I thank you for your offer of Robertson, but 
 I have more reading upon my hands at this pre- 
 sent writing, than I shall get rid of in a twelve- 
 month; and this moment recollect, that I have
 
 2.52 
 
 seen it already. He is an author that I admire 
 much, with one exception, that I think his style 
 is too laboured. Hume, as an historian, pleases 
 me more. 
 
 I have read just enough of the Biographia 
 Britannica, to say, that I have tasted it, and 
 have no doubt but I shall like it. 1 am pretty 
 much in the garden at this season of the year, 
 so read but little. In summer-time I am as 
 giddy-headed as a boy, and can settle to no- 
 thing. Winter condenses me, and makes me 
 lumpish, and sober; and then I can read all 
 day long. 
 
 For the same reasons, I have no need of the 
 landscapes at present; when I want them I will 
 renew my application, and repeat the descrip- 
 tion, but it will hardly be before October. 
 
 Before I rose this morning, I composed the 
 three following Stanzas; I send them because I 
 like them pretty well myself; and if you should 
 not, you must accept this handsome compliment 
 as an amends for their deficiencies. You may- 
 print the lines, if you judge them worth it*. 
 
 I have only time to add love, &c, and my 
 two initials. 
 
 W. C, 
 
 * Verses on the burning of Lord Mansfield's house.
 
 253 
 LETTER LV. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON 
 
 June 23, 1780. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 Your reflections upon the 
 state of London, the sins and enormities of that 
 great city, while you had a distant view of it 
 from Greenwich, seem to have been prophetic 
 of the heavy stroke, that fell upon it just after. 
 Man often prophesies without knowing it; a spi- 
 rit speaks by him which is not his own, though 
 he does not at that time suspect, that he is un- 
 der the influence of any other. Did he foresee, 
 what is always foreseen by him who dictates 
 what he supposes to be his own, he would suf- 
 fer by anticipation, as well as by consequence; 
 and wish perhaps as ardently for the happy ig- 
 norance, to which he is at present so much in- 
 debted, as some have foolishly and inconsider- 
 ately done for a knowledge, that would be but 
 another name for misery. 
 
 And why have I said all this? especially to 
 you, who have hitherto said it to me not because 
 I had the least desire of informing a wiser man 
 than myself, but because the observation was
 
 254 
 
 naturally suggested by the recollection of your 
 letter, and that letter, though not the last, hap- 
 pened to be uppermost in my mind. I can com- 
 pare this mind of mine to nothing that resem- 
 bles it more, than to a board that is under the 
 carpenter's plane (I mean while I am writing to 
 you), the shavings are my uppermost thoughts; 
 after a few strokes of the tool, it acquires a new 
 surface, this again, upon a repetition of his task, 
 he takes off, and a new surface still succeeds 
 whether the shavings of the present day will be 
 worth your acceptance, I know not, I am un- 
 fortunately made neither of cedar nor of maho- 
 gany, but Truncus jiculnus, inutile lignum con- 
 sequently, though I should be planed, till I am 
 as thin as a wafer, it will be but rubbish to the 
 last. 
 
 It is not strange, that you should be the sub- 
 ject of a false report, for the sword of slander, 
 like that of war, devours one as well as another; 
 and a blameless character is particularly deli- 
 cious to its unsparing appetite. But that you 
 should be the object of such a report, you who 
 meddle less with the designs of government, 
 than almost any man that lives under it, this is 
 strange indeed. It is well however, when they 
 who account it good sport to traduce the repu- 
 tation of another, invent a story that refutes 
 itself. I wonder they do not always endeavour
 
 255 
 
 to accommodate their fiction to the real charac- 
 ter of the person; their tale would then, at least, 
 have an air of probability, and it might cost a 
 peaceable good man much more trouble to dis- 
 prove it. But, perhaps, it would not be easy to 
 discern, what part of your conduct lies more open 
 to such an attempt, than another; or what it is 
 that you either say or do, at any time, that pre- 
 sents a fair opportunity to the most ingenious 
 slanderer, to slip in a falsehood, between your 
 words, or actions, that shall seem to be of a piece 
 with either. You hate compliment, I know, but 
 by your leave, this is not one it is a truth- 
 worse and worse now I have praised you in- 
 deed well you must thank yourself for it, it 
 was absolutely done without the least intention 
 on my part, and proceeded from a pen that, as 
 far as I can remember, was never guilty of flat- 
 tery, since I knew how to hold it. He that 
 slanders me, paints me blacker than I am, and 
 he that flatters me, whiter they both daub me, 
 and when I look in the glass of conscience, I 
 see myself disguised by both : I had as lief my 
 tailor should sew gingerbread nuts on my coat 
 instead of buttons, as that any man should call 
 my Bristol stone a diamond. The tailor's trick 
 would not at all embellish my suit, nor the flat- 
 terer's make me at all the richer. I never make 
 a present to my friend, of what I dislike myself.
 
 256 
 
 Ergo (I have reached the conclusion at last), I 
 did not mean to flatter you. 
 
 We have sent a petition to Lord Dartmouth, 
 by this post, praying him to interfere in parlia- 
 ment, in behalf of the poor lace-makers. I say 
 we, because I have signed it; Mr. G. drew it up, 
 Mr. did not think it grammatical, there- 
 fore would not sign it. Yet I think, Priscian 
 himself would have pardoned the manner, for 
 the sake of the matter. I dare say if his Lord- 
 ship does not comply with the prayer of it, it 
 will not be because he thinks it of more conse- 
 quence to write grammatically, than that the 
 poor should eat, but for some better reason. 
 
 My love to all under your roof. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W. C.
 
 257 
 LETTER LVI. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 July 2, 1780. 
 
 Carissime, I am glad of your con- 
 fidence, and have reason to hope I shall never 
 abuse it. If you trust me with a secret, I am 
 hermetically sealed; and if you call for the ex- 
 ercise of my judgment, such as it is, I am never 
 freakish or wanton in the use of it, much less 
 mischievous and malignant. Critics, I believe, 
 do not often stand so clear of these vices as I 
 do. I like your Epitaph, except that I doubt 
 the propriety of the word immaturus; which, I 
 think, is rather applicable to fruits than flowers ; 
 and except the last pentameter, the assertion it 
 contains being rather too obvious a thought to 
 finish with; not that I think an epitaph should 
 be pointed, like an epigram. But still there is 
 a closeness of thought and expression, neces- 
 sary in the conclusion of all these little things, 
 that they may leave an agreeable flavour upon 
 the palate. Whatever is short, should be nerv- 
 ous, masculine, and compact. Little men are 
 so; and little poems should be so; because, 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 
 
 where the work is short, the author has no right 
 to the- plea of weariness, and laziness is never 
 admitted as an available excuse in any thing. 
 Now you know my opinion, you will very likely 
 improve upon my improvement, and alter my 
 alterations for the better. To touch, and re- 
 touch, is, though some writers boast of neg- 
 ligence, and others would be ashamed to show 
 their foul copies, the secret of almost all good 
 writing, especially in verse. I am never weary 
 of it myself, and if you would take as much 
 pains as I do, you would have no need to ask 
 for my corrections. 
 
 Hie sepultus est 
 
 Inter suorum lacrymas 
 
 GULIELMUS NORTHCOT, 
 
 Gulielmi et Marine Alius 
 
 Unicus, unice dilectus, 
 
 Qui floris ritu succisus est semihiantis, 
 
 Aprilis die septimo, 
 
 i/80, Ml 10. 
 
 Care, vale! Sed non aeternum, care, valelo! 
 
 Namque iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero: 
 Turn nihil amplexus poterit divellere nostros, 
 
 Nee tu marcesces, nee lacrymabor ego. 
 
 Having an English translation of it by me, 
 I send it, though it may be of no use.
 
 259 
 
 Farewell ! " But not for ever," Hope replies, 
 " Trace but his steps, and meet him in the skies!" 
 There nothing shall renew our parting pain, 
 Thou shalt not wither, nor I weep again. 
 
 The Stanzas, that I sent you, are maiden 
 ones, having never been seen by any eye but 
 your Mother's and your own. 
 
 If you send me franks, I shall write longer 
 letters; Valete, sicut et nos valemusf Amate, 
 sicut et nos amamus. 
 
 The next letter, to Mr. Hill, affords a strik- 
 ing proof of Cowper's compassionate feelings to- 
 ward the poor around him. 
 
 LETTER LVII. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 July 8, 1780. 
 MON AMI, 
 
 If you ever take the tip of the 
 Chancellor's ear between your finger and thumb, 
 you can hardly improve the opportunity to 
 better purpose, than if you should whisper into 
 
 s 2
 
 260 
 
 it the voice of compassion and lenity to the 
 lace-makers. I am an eye witness to their po- 
 verty, and do know that hundreds in this little 
 town are upon the point of starving, and that 
 the most unremitting industry is but barely suf- 
 ficient to keep them from it. I know that the 
 bill, by which they would have been so fatally 
 affected, is thrown out: but Lord Stormont 
 threatens them with another; and if another, 
 like it, should pass, they are undone. "We lately 
 sent a petition to Lord Dartmouth ; I signed it, 
 and am sure the contents are true. The purport 
 of it was to inform him, that there are very near 
 one thousand two hundred lace-makers, in this 
 beggarly town, the most of whom had reason 
 enough, while the bill was in agitation, to look 
 upon every loaf they bought, as the last they 
 should ever be able to earn. I can never think 
 it good policy to incur the certain inconve- 
 nience of ruining thirty thousand, in order to 
 prevent a remote and possible damage though 
 to a much greater number. The measure is like 
 a sithe, and the poor lace-makers are the sickly 
 crop, that trembles before the edge of it. The 
 prospect of peace with America is like the streak 
 of dawn in their horizon, but this bill is like a 
 black cloud behind it, that threatens their hope 
 Of a comfortable day with utter extinction. 
 I did not perceive till this moment, that I
 
 261 
 
 had tacked two similies together, a practice, 
 which though warranted by the example of 
 Homer, and allowed in an epic poem, is rather 
 luxuriant and licentious in a letter; lest I should 
 add another, I conclude. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER LVIIL 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 July II, 1780. 
 
 I account myself sufficiently com- 
 mended for my Latin exercise, by the number 
 of translations it has undergone. That which 
 you distinguished in the margin, by the title of 
 " better," was the production of a friend, and, 
 except that, for a modest reason, he omitted the 
 third couplet, I think it a good one. To finish 
 the group, I have translated it myself; and, 
 though I would not wish you to give it to the 
 world, for more reasons than one, especially lest 
 some French hero should call me to account for 
 it I add it on the other side. An author ought 
 to be the best judge of his own meaning; and, 
 whether I have succeeded or not, I cannot but
 
 262 
 
 wish, that where a translator is wanted, the 
 writer was always to be his own. 
 
 False, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart, 
 France quits the warrior's, for the assassin's part ; 
 To dirty hands, a dirty bribe conveys, 
 Bids the low street, and lofty palace blaze. 
 Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone, 
 She hires the worst and basest of our own. 
 Kneel, France ! a suppliant conquers us with ease, 
 We always spare a coward on his knees. 
 
 I have often wondered that Dryden's illus- 
 trious epigram on Milton, (in my mind the se- 
 cond best that ever was made) has never been 
 translated into Latin, for the admiration of the 
 learned in other countries. I have at last pre- 
 sumed to venture upon the task myself. The 
 great closeness of the original, which is equal in 
 that respect to the most compact Latin I ever 
 saw, made it extremely difficult. 
 
 Tres tria, sed longe distantia, saecula vates 
 Ostentant tribus e gentibus eximioB. 
 
 Graecia sublimem, cum maj estate disertum 
 Roma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem. 
 
 Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coacta est, 
 Tertius ut fieret, consociare duos. 
 
 I have not one bright thought upon the 
 Chancellor's recovery; nor can I strike off so 
 much as one sparkling atom from that brilliant
 
 subject. It is not when I will, nor upon what I 
 will, but as a thought happens to occur to me; 
 and then I versify, whether I will or not. I 
 never write but for my amusement; and what I 
 write is sure to answer that end, if it answers 
 no other. If, besides this purpose, the more 
 desirable one of entertaining you be effected, I 
 then receive double fruit of my labour, and con- 
 sider this produce of it as a second crop, the 
 more valuable, because less expected. But when 
 I have once remitted a composition to you, I 
 have done with it. It is pretty certain, that I 
 shall never read it, or think of it again. From 
 that moment I have constituted you sole judge 
 of its accomplishments, if it has any, and of its 
 defects, which it is sure to have. 
 
 For this reason I decline answering the ques- 
 tion, with which you concluded your last, and 
 cannot persuade myself to enter into a critical 
 examen of the two pieces upon Lord Mansfield's 
 loss, either with respect to their intrinsic or 
 comparative merit; and, indeed, after having 
 rather discouraged that use of them, which you 
 had designed, there is no occasion for it. 
 
 W.C. 
 
 The poet's affectionate effort in renewing his 
 correspondence with Mrs. Cowper, to whom he
 
 264 
 
 had been accustomed to pour forth his heart 
 without reserve, appears to have had a beneficial 
 effect on his reviving spirits. His pathetic letter 
 to that lady was followed, in the course of two 
 months, by a letter of a more lively cast, in 
 which the reader will find some touches of his 
 native humour, and a vein of pleasantry peculiar 
 to himself. 
 
 LETTER LIX. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 July 20, 1780. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 Mr. Newton having desired 
 me to be of the party, I am come to meet him. 
 You see me sixteen years older, at the least, 
 than when I saw you last; but the effects of 
 time seem to have taken place rather on the 
 outside of my head, than within it. What was 
 brown, is become grey, but what was foolish, 
 remains foolish still. Green fruit must rot be- 
 fore it ripens, if the season is such as to afford 
 it nothing but cold winds and dark clouds, that 
 interrupt every ray of sunshine. My days steal 
 away silently, and march on (as poor mad Lear
 
 265 
 
 would have made his soldiers march) as if they 
 were shod with felt; not so silently, but that I 
 hear them; yet were it not that I am always 
 listening to their flight, having no infirmity that 
 I had not, when I was much younger, I should 
 deceive myself with an imagination that I am 
 still young. 
 
 I am fond of writing, as an amusement, but 
 do not always find it one. Being rather scantily 
 furnished with subjects, that are good for any- 
 thing, and corresponding only with those, who 
 have no relish for such as are good for nothing, 
 I often find myself reduced to the necessity, 
 the disagreeable necessity, of writing about my~ 
 self. This does not mend the matter much; for 
 though in a description of my own condition, I 
 discover abundant materials to employ my pen 
 upon, yet as the task is not very agreeable to 
 me, so I am sufficiently aware, that it is likely 
 to prove irksome to others. A painter, who 
 should confine himself, in the exercise of his 
 art, to the drawing of his own picture, must be 
 a wonderful coxcomb, if he did not soon grow 
 sick of his occupation, and be peculiarly for- 
 tunate, if he did not make others as sick as 
 himself. 
 
 Remote as your dwelling is from the late 
 scene of riot and confusion, 1 hope that, though 
 you could not but hear the report, you heard no
 
 266 
 
 more, and that the roarings of the mad multi- 
 tude did not reach you. That was a day of 
 terror to the innocent, and the present is a day 
 of still greater terror to the guilty. The law 
 was, for a few moments, like an arrow in the 
 quiver, seemed to be of no use, and did no 
 execution ; now it is an arrow upon the string, 
 and many, who despised it lately, are trembling 
 as they stand before the point of it. 
 
 I have talked more already than I have for- 
 merly done in three visits you remember my 
 taciturnity, never to be forgotten by those who 
 knew me; not to depart entirely from what 
 might be, for aught I know, the most shining 
 part of my character I here shut my mouth, 
 make my bow, and return to Olney. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER LX. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 July 27, 178O. 
 
 My dear friend, as two men sit 
 silent, after having exhausted all their topics of 
 conversation; one says " It is very fine wea-
 
 267 
 
 ther," and the other says " Yes;" one blows 
 his nose, and the other rubs his eyebrows : (by 
 the way, this is very much in Homer's manner) 
 such seems to be the case between you and me. 
 After a silence of some days, I wrote you a long 
 something, that (I suppose) was nothing to the 
 purpose, because it has not afforded you mate- 
 rials for an answer. Nevertheless, as it often 
 happens in the case above-stated, one of the 
 distressed parties, being deeply sensible of the 
 awkwardness of a dumb duet, breaks silence 
 again, and resolves to speak, though he has no- 
 thing to say. So it fares with me. I am with 
 you again in the form of an epistle, though 
 considering my present emptiness, I have rea- 
 son to fear, that your only joy upon the occa- 
 sion will be, that it is conveyed to you in a 
 frank. 
 
 When I began, I expected no interruption. 
 But if I had expected interruption without end, 
 I should have been less disappointed. First came 
 the barber; who, after having embellished the 
 outside of my head, has left the inside just as 
 unfurnished as he found it. Then came Olney 
 bridge, not into the house, but into the con- 
 versation. The cause relating to it was tried on 
 Tuesday at Buckingham. The judge directed 
 the jury to find a verdict favorable to Olney. 
 The jury consisted of one knave, and eleven
 
 268 
 
 fools. The last-mentioned followed the afore- 
 mentioned, as sheep follow a bell-wether, and 
 decided in direct opposition to the said judge. 
 Then a flaw was discovered in the indictment. 
 The indictment was quashed, and an order made 
 for a new trial. The new trial will be in the 
 King's Bench, where said knave, and said fools, 
 will have nothing to do with it. So the men of 
 Olney fling up their caps, and assure themselves 
 of a complete victory. A victory will save me, 
 and your Mother, many shillings, perhaps some 
 pounds, which, except that it has afforded me 
 a subject to write upon, was the only reason, 
 why I said so much about it. I know you take 
 an interest in all that concerns us, and will con- 
 sequently rejoice with us, in the prospect of an 
 event in which we are concerned so nearly. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 W.C.
 
 26*9 
 LETTER LXI. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 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 I do with you, and I 
 believe, you have reason the truth is this If 
 I walked the streets with a riddle under my arm, 
 I should never think of performing before the 
 window of a privy counsellor, or a chief jus- 
 tice, but should rather make free with ears more 
 likely to be open 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. Newton; that 
 the latter is already an apostle, while he himself 
 is only undergoing the business 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 scru- 
 ple to direct her to my friend at Hoxton. This 
 has been one reason why I have so long delayed
 
 70 
 
 the Riddle. But lest I should seem to set a va- 
 lue upon it, that I do not, by making it an ob- 
 ject 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. 
 
 LETTER LXII. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 August 6, 1780. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 You like to hear from me 
 This is a very good reason why I should write 
 But I have nothing to say This seems equally 
 a good reason why I should not Yet if you 
 had alighted from your horse at our door this 
 morning, and at this present writing, being five 
 o'clock in the afternoon, had found occasion to 
 say to me " Mr. Cowper, you have not spoke 
 " since I came in, have you resolved never to 
 " speak again?" It would be but a poor reply, if 
 in answer to the summons, I should plead in-
 
 271 
 
 ability as my best and only excuse. And this 
 by the way suggests to me a seasonable piece of 
 instruction, and reminds me of what I am very 
 apt to forget, when I have any epistolary busi- 
 ness in hand, that a letter may be written upon 
 any thing or nothing, just as that any thing or 
 nothing happens to occur. A man that has a 
 journey before him twenty miles in length, which 
 he is to perform on foot, will not hesitate, and 
 doubt, whether he shall set out or not, because 
 he does not readily conceive how he shall ever 
 reach the end of it; for he knows, that by the 
 simple operation of moving one foot forward 
 first, and then the other, he shall be sure to ac- 
 complish it. So it is in the present case, and so 
 it is in every similar case. A letter is written as 
 a conversation is maintained, or a journey per- 
 formed, not by preconcerted or premeditated 
 means, a new contrivance, or an invention ne- 
 ver heard of before, but merely by maintaining 
 a progress, and resolving, as a postillion does, 
 having once set out, never to stop, till we reach 
 the appointed end. If a man may talk without 
 thinking, why may he not write upon the same 
 terms? A grave gentleman of the last century, 
 a tie-wig, square-toe, Steinkirk figure, would 
 say " My good sir, a man has no right to do 
 either." But it is to be hoped, that the present 
 century has nothing to do with the mouldy opi-
 
 272 
 
 nions of the last, and so good Sir Launcelot, or 
 Sir Paul, or whatever be your name, step into 
 your picture frame again, and look as if you 
 thought for another century, and leave us mo- 
 derns in the mean time, to think when we can, 
 and to write, whether we Can or not, else we 
 might as well be dead as you are. 
 
 When we look back upon our forefathers, 
 we seem to look back upon the people of an- 
 other nation, almost upon creatures of another 
 species. Their vast rambling mansions, spa- 
 cious halls, and painted casements, the gothic 
 porch, smothered with honeysuckles, their little 
 gardens and high walls, their box-edgings, balls 
 of holly, and yew-tree statues, are become so 
 entirely unfashionable now, that we can hardly 
 believe it possible, that a people who resembled 
 us so little in their taste, should resemble us in 
 any thing else. But in every thing else, I sup- 
 pose, they were our counterparts exactly, and 
 time, that has sewed up the slashed sleeve, and 
 reduced the large trunk hose to a neat pair of 
 silk stockings, has left human nature just where 
 it fojund it. The inside of man at least has un- 
 dergone no change. His passions, appetites, and 
 aims, are just what they ever were. They wear 
 perhaps a handsomer disguise than they did in 
 days of yore ; for philosophy and literature will 
 have their effect upon the exterior, but in every
 
 273 
 
 other respect, a modern is only an ancient in a 
 different dress, 
 
 W.C. 
 
 LETTER LXIII. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 August 21 , 17SO. 
 
 The following occurrence ought 
 not to be passed over in silence, in a place where 
 so few notable ones are to be met with. Last 
 Wednesday night, while we were at supper, be- 
 tween the hours of eight and nine, I heard an 
 unusual noise in the back -parlour, as if one 
 of the hares was entangled, and endeavouring 
 to disengage herself. I was just going to rise 
 from table, when it ceased. In about five mi- 
 nutes, a voice on the outside of the parlour door 
 inquired if one of my hares had got away. I 
 immediately rushed into the next room, and 
 found that my poor favourite puss had made her 
 escape. She had gnawed in sunder the strings 
 of a lattice work, with which I thought I had 
 sufficiently secured the window, and which I 
 preferred to any other sort of blind, because it 
 admitted plenty of air. From thence I hastened 
 vol. 1 T
 
 274 
 
 to the kitchen, where I saw the redoubtable 
 Thomas Freeman, who told me, that having 
 seen her, just after she dropped into the street, 
 he attempted to cover her with his hat, but she 
 screamed out, and leaped directly over his head. 
 I then desired him to pursue as fast as possible, 
 and added Richard Coleman to the chace, as 
 being nimbler, and carrying less weight, than 
 Thomas; not expecting to see her again, but 
 desirous to learn, if possible, what became of 
 her. In something less than an hour, Richard 
 returned, almost breathless, with the following- 
 account. That soon after he began to run, he 
 left Tom behind him, and came in sight of a 
 most numerous hunt, of men, women, children, 
 and dogs ; that he did his best to keep back the 
 dogs, and presently outstripped the crowd, so 
 that the race was at last disputed between him- 
 self and puss she ran right through the town, 
 and down the lane that leads to Dropshort a 
 little before she came to the house, he got the 
 start and turned her; she pushed for the town 
 again, and soon after she entered it, sought shel- 
 ter in Mr. WagstafFs tan-yard, adjoining to old 
 Mr. Drake's Sturges's harvest-men were at sup- 
 per, and saw her from the opposite side of the 
 way. There she encountered the tan-pits full 
 of water, and while she was struggling out of 
 one pit, and plunging into another, and almost
 
 275 
 
 drowned, one of the men drew her out by the 
 ears and secured her. She was then well washed 
 in a bucket, to get the lime out of her coat, and 
 brought home in a sack, at ten o'clock. 
 
 This frolic cost us four shillings, but you 
 may believe we did not grudge a farthing of it. 
 The poor creature received only a little hurt in 
 one of her claws, and in one of her ears, and is 
 now almost as well as ever. 
 
 I do not call this an answer to your letter, 
 but such as it is, I send it, presuming upon that 
 interest, which I know you take in my minutest 
 concerns, which I cannot express better than in 
 the words of Terence, a little varied Nihil 
 mei a te alienumputas. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 T 2
 
 276 
 LETTER LXIV. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 August 31, 17SO, 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 I am obliged to you for your 
 long letter, which did not seem so, and for your 
 short one, which was more than I had any rea- 
 son to expect. Short as it was, it conveyed to 
 me two interesting articles of intelligence. An 
 account of your recovering from a fever, and of 
 Lady Cowper's death. The latter was, I sup- 
 pose, to be expected, for by what remembrance 
 I have of her Ladyship, who was never much 
 acquainted with her, she had reached those 
 years, that are always found upon the borders 
 of another world. As for you, your time of life 
 is comparatively of a youthful date. You may 
 think of death as much as you please (you can- 
 not think of it too much), but I hope you will 
 live to think of it many years. 
 
 It costs me not much difficulty to suppose, 
 that my friends who were already grown old, 
 when I saw them last, are old still, but it costs 
 me a good deal sometimes to think of those, 
 who were at that time young, as being older 
 than they were. Not having been an eyewit-
 
 277 
 
 ness of the change, that time has made in them, 
 and my former idea of them not being cor- 
 rected by observation, it remains the same ; my 
 memory presents me with this image unim-r 
 paired, and while it retains the resemblance of 
 what they were, forgets, that, by this time, the 
 picture may have lost much of its likeness, 
 through the alteration, that succeeding years 
 have made in the original. I know not what 
 impressions Time may have made upon your 
 person, for while his claws (as our grannams 
 called them) strike deep furrows in some faces, 
 he seems to sheath them with much tenderness, 
 as if fearful of doing injury, to others. But 
 though an enemy to the person, he is a friend to 
 the mind, and you have found him so. Though, 
 even in this respect, his treatment of us depends 
 upon what he meets with at our hands; if we 
 use him well, and listen to his admonitions, he 
 is a friend indeed, but otherwise the worst of 
 enemies, who takes from us daily something that 
 we valued, and gives us nothing better in its 
 stead. It is well with them, who, like you, can 
 stand a tiptoe on the mountain top of human 
 life, look down with pleasure upon the valley 
 they have passed, and sometimes stretch their 
 wings in joyful hope of a happy flight into Eter- 
 nity. Yet a Utile while, and your hope will be 
 accomplished.
 
 278 
 
 When you can favor me with a little account 
 of your own family, without inconvenience, I 
 shall be glad to receive it, for though separated 
 from my kindred by little more than half a cen- 
 tury of miles, I know as little of their concerns, 
 as if oceans and continents were interposed be- 
 tween us. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 My dear Cousin, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER LXV. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Sept. 3, 1/80. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I am glad you are so provi- 
 dent, and that, while you are young, you have 
 furnished yourself with the means of comfort in 
 old age. Your crutch and your pipe may be of 
 use to you, (and may they be so) should your 
 years be extended to an antediluvian date; and 
 for your perfect accommodation, you seem to 
 want nothing but a clerk called Snuffle, and a 
 sexton of the name of Skeleton, to make your 
 ministerial equipage complete.
 
 279 
 
 I think I have read as much of the first vo- 
 lume of the Biographia, as I shall ever read. I 
 find it very amusing; more so, perhaps, than it 
 would have been, had they sifted their charac- 
 ters with more exactness, and admitted none 
 but those, who had in some way or other en- 
 titled themselves to immortality, by deserving 
 well of the public. Such a compilation would 
 perhaps have been more judicious, though I con- 
 fess it would have afforded less variety. The 
 priests and monks of earlier, and the doctors of 
 later days, who have signalized themselves by 
 nothing but a controversial pamphlet, long since 
 thrown by, and never to be perused again, 
 might have been forgotten, without injury or 
 loss to the national character for learning or 
 genius. This observation suggested to me the 
 following lines, which may serve to illustrate 
 my meaning, and at the same time to give my 
 criticism a sprightlier air. 
 
 Oh fond attempt to give a deathless lot 
 
 To names ignoble, bom to be forgot ! 
 
 In vain recorded in historic page, 
 
 They court the notice of a future age ; 
 
 Those twinkling, tiny, lustres of the land, 
 
 Drop one by one, from Fame's neglecting hand ; 
 
 Lethean gulfs receive them as they fall, 
 
 And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all. 
 
 So when a child (as playful children use) 
 
 Has burnt to cinder a stale last-year'g news.
 
 280 
 
 The flame extinct, he views the roving fire. 
 There goes my lady, and there goes the squire, 
 
 There goes the parson O illustrious spark ! 
 
 And there scarce less illustrious goes the clerk ! 
 
 Virgil admits none but worthies into the 
 Elysian Fields; I cannot recollect the lines in 
 which he describes them all, but these in parti- 
 cular I well remember 
 
 Quique sui memores alios fecere merendo, 
 Inventas aut qui vitam excoluere per artes. 
 
 A chaste and scrupulous conduct like his would 
 well become the writer of national biography. 
 But enough of this. 
 
 Our respects attend Miss Shuttleworth, with 
 many thanks for her intended present. Some 
 purses derive all their value from their contents, 
 but these will have an intrinsic value of their 
 own ; and though mine should be often empty, 
 which is not an improbable supposition, I shall 
 still esteem it highly on its own account. 
 
 If you could meet with a second-hand Virgil, 
 ditto Homer, both Iliad and Odyssey, together 
 with a Clavis, for I have no Lexicon, and all 
 tolerably cheap, I shall be obliged to you, if you 
 will make the purchase. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 w. c.
 
 LETTER LXVI. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Sept. 7, ];so. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 As many gentlemen as there 
 are in the world, who have children, and heads 
 capable of reflecting upon the important subject 
 of their education, so many opinions there are 
 about it; and many of them just and sensible, 
 though almost all differing from each other. 
 With respect to the education of boys, I think, 
 they are generally made to draw in Latin and 
 Greek trammels too soon. It is pleasing no 
 doubt to a parent, to see his child already in 
 some sort a proficient in those languages, at an 
 age, when most others are entirely ignorant of 
 them; but hence it often happens, that a boy, 
 who could construe a fable of jEsop, at six or 
 seven years of age, having exhausted his little 
 stock of attention and diligence, in making that 
 notable acquisition, grows weary of his task, 
 conceives a dislike for study, and perhaps makes 
 but a very indifferent progress afterwards. The 
 mind and body have, in this respect, a striking
 
 282 
 
 resemblance of each other. In childhood they 
 are both nimble, but not strong; they can skip 
 and frisk about -with a wonderful agility, but 
 hard labour spoils them both. In maturer years 
 they become less active, but more vigorous, 
 more capable of a fixed application, and can 
 make themselves sport with that, which a little 
 earlier would have affected them with into- 
 lerable fatigue. I should recommend it to you, 
 therefore, (but after all you must judge for 
 yourself) to allot the two next years of little 
 John's scholarship to writing and arithmetic, 
 together with which, for variety's sake, and be- 
 cause it is capable of being formed into an 
 amusement, I would mingle geography, (a science 
 which, if not attended to betimes, is seldom 
 made an object of much consideration;) essen- 
 tially necessary to the accomplishment of a gen- 
 tleman, yet, as I know (by sad experience) im- 
 perfectly, if at all, inculcated in the schools. 
 Lord Spencer's son, when he was four yeai* of age, 
 knew the situation of every kingdom, country, 
 city, river, and remarkable mountain in the world. 
 For this attainment, which I suppose his father 
 had never made, he was indebted to a plaything; 
 having been accustomed to amuse himself with 
 those maps which are cut into several compart- 
 ments, so as to be thrown into a heap of confu- 
 sion, that they may be put together again with
 
 283 
 
 an exact coincidence of all their angles and 
 bearings, so as to form a perfect whole. 
 
 If he begins Latin and Greek at eight, or 
 even at nine years of age, it is surely soon 
 enough. Seven years, the usual allowance for 
 these acquisitions, are more than sufficient for 
 the purpose, especially with his readiness in 
 learning; for you would hardly wish to have 
 him qualified for the university before fifteen, a 
 period, in my mind, much too early for it, and 
 when he could hardly be trusted there without 
 the utmost danger to his morals. Upon the 
 whole, you will perceive, that in my judgment, 
 the difficulty, as well as the wisdom, consists 
 more in bridling in, and keeping back, a boy of 
 his parts, than in pushing him forward. If, 
 therefore, at the end of the two next years, in- 
 stead of putting a grammar into his. hand, you 
 should allow him to amuse himself with some 
 agreeable writers upon the subject of natural 
 philosophy for another year, I think it would an- 
 swer well. There is a book called Cosmotheoria 
 Puerilis, there are Durham's Physico and Astro- 
 theology, together with several others in the 
 same manner, very intelligible even to a child, 
 
 and full of useful instruction. 
 
 W. C.
 
 284 
 
 LETTER LXVII. 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNTVIN. 
 
 Sept. i;. 1780. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 You desire my further thoughts 
 on the subject of education. I send you such 
 as had for the most part occurred to me, when 
 I wrote last, but could not be comprised in a 
 single letter. They are indeed on a different 
 branch of this interesting theme, but not less 
 important than the former. 
 
 I think it your happiness, and wish you to 
 think it so yourself, that you are, in every respect, 
 qualified for the task of instructing your son, 
 and preparing him for the university, without 
 committing him to the care of a stranger. In 
 my judgment, a domestic education deserves 
 the preference to a public one on a hundred 
 accounts, which I have neither time nor room 
 to mention. I shall only touch upon two or 
 three, that I cannot but consider as having a 
 right to your most earnest attention. 
 
 In a public school, or indeed in any school, 
 his morals are sure to be but little attended to,
 
 285 
 
 and his religion not at all. If he can catch the 
 love of virtue from the fine things, that are 
 spoken of it in the classics, and the love of ho^ 
 liness from the customary attendance upon such 
 preaching as he is likely to hear, it will be well; 
 but I am sure you have had too many opportu- 
 nities to observe the inefficacy of such means, 
 to expect any such advantage from them. In 
 the mean time, the more powerful influence of 
 bad example, and perhaps bad company, will 
 continually counterwork these only preserva- 
 tives he can meet with, and may possibly send 
 him home to you, at the end of five or six years, 
 such as you will be sorry to see him. You 
 escaped indeed the contagion yourself; but a 
 few instances of happy exemption from a gene- 
 ral malady are not sufficient warrant to con- 
 clude, that it is therefore not infectious, or may 
 be encountered without danger. 
 
 You have seen too much of the world, and 
 are a man of too much reflection, not to have 
 observed, that in proportion as the sons of a 
 family approach to years of maturity, they lose 
 a sense of obligation to their parents, and seem 
 at last almost divested of that tender affection, 
 which the nearest of all relations seems to de- 
 mand from them. I have often observed it 
 myself, and have always thought I could suffi- 
 ciently account for it, without laying all the
 
 286 
 
 blame upon the children. While they continue 
 in their parents' house, they are every day 
 obliged, and every day reminded how much it 
 is their interest, as well as duty, to be obliging 
 and affectionate in return. But at eight or nine 
 years of age, the boy goes to school. From 
 that moment he becomes a stranger in his fa- 
 ther's house. The course of parental kindness 
 is interrupted. The smiles of his mother, those 
 tender admonitions, and the solicitous care of 
 both his parents, are no longer before his eyes, 
 year after year he feels himself more and more 
 detached from them, till at last, he is so effec- 
 tually weaned from the connexion, as to find him- 
 self happier any where than in their company. 
 
 I should have been glad of a frank for this 
 letter, for I have said but little, of what I could 
 say, upon this subject, and perhaps I may not 
 be able to catch it by the end again. If I can, 
 I shall add to it hereafter. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W.C.
 
 287 
 
 LETTER LXVIII. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Oct. 5, 1750. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 Now for the sequel you 
 have anticipated one of my arguments in favor 
 of a private education, therefore I need say but 
 little about it. The folly of supposing that the 
 mother-tongue, in some respects the most diffi- 
 cult of all tongues, may be acquired without a 
 teacher, is predominant in all the public schools, 
 that I have ever heard of. To pronounce it 
 well, to speak, and to write it with fluency and 
 elegance, are no easy attainments; not one in 
 fifty of those, Avho pass through Westminster 
 and Eton, arrive at any remarkable proficiency 
 in these accomplishments; and they that do are 
 more indebted to their own study and applica- 
 tion for it, than to any instruction received 
 there. In general, there is nothing so pedantic 
 as the style of a schoolboy, if he aims at any 
 style at all; and if he docs not, he is of course 
 inelegant, and perhaps ungrammatical. A de- 
 fect, no doubt, in great measure, owing to want
 
 28S 
 
 of cultivation; for the same lad, that is often 
 commended for his Latin, frequently would de- 
 serve to be whipped for his English, if the fault 
 were not more his master's than his own. I know 
 not where this evil is so likely to be prevented 
 as at home supposing always, nevertheless, 
 (which is the case in your instance) that the 
 boy's parents, and their acquaintance, are per- 
 sons of elegance and taste themselves. For to 
 converse with those, who converse with pro- 
 priety, and to be directed to such authors as 
 have refined and improved the language by their 
 productions, are advantages which he cannot 
 elsewhere enjoy in an equal degree. And though 
 it requires some time to regulate the taste, and 
 fix the judgment, and these effects must be gra- 
 dually wrought even upon the best understand- 
 ing, yet I suppose, much less time will be neces- 
 sary for the purpose, than could at first be ima- 
 gined, because the opportunities of improvement 
 are continual. 
 
 A public education is often recommended as 
 the most effectual remedy for that bashful and 
 awkward restraint, so epidemical among the 
 youth of our country. But I verily believe, 
 that instead of being a cure, it is often the cause 
 of it. For seven or eight years of his life, the 
 boy has hardly seen or conversed with a man, 
 or a woman, except the maids at his boarding
 
 289 
 
 house. A gentleman or a lady are consequently 
 such novelties to him, that he is perfectly at a 
 loss to know what sort of behaviour he should 
 preserve before them. He plays with his but- 
 tons, or the strings of his hat, he blows his nose, 
 and hangs down his head, is conscious of his 
 own deficiency to a degree, that makes him 
 quite unhappy, and trembles lest any one should 
 speak to him, because that would quite over- 
 whelm him. Is not all this miserable shyness 
 the effect of his education? To me it appears to 
 be so. If he saw good company every day, he 
 would never be terrified at the sight of it, and 
 a room full of ladies and gentlemen would 
 alarm him no more than the chairs they sit on. 
 Such is the effect of custom. 
 
 I need add nothing further on this subject, 
 because I believe little John is as likely to be 
 exempted from this weakness as most young 
 gentlemen we shall meet with. He seems to 
 have his father's spirit in this respect, in whom 
 I could never discern the least trace of bash- 
 fulness, though I have often heard him complain 
 of it. Under your management, and the in- 
 fluence of your example, I think he can hardly 
 fail to escape it. If he does, he escapes that 
 which has made many a man uncomfortable for 
 life; and ruined not a few, by forcing them into 
 vol. i. u
 
 290 
 
 mean and dishonorable company, where only 
 they could be free and cheerful. 
 
 Connexions formed at school are said to be 
 lasting, and often beneficial. There are two or 
 three stories of this kind upon record, which 
 would not be so constantly cited as they are, 
 whenever this subject happens to be mentioned, 
 if the chronicle that preserves their remem- 
 brance had many besides to boast of. For my 
 own part, I found such friendships, though warm 
 enough in their commencement, surprisingly 
 liable to extinction; and of seven or eight, whom 
 I had selected for intimates out of about three 
 hundred, in ten years time not one was left me. 
 The truth is, that there may be, and often is, an 
 attachment of one boy to another, that looks 
 very like a friendship; and while they are in 
 circumstances, that enable them mutually to 
 oblige, and to assist each other, promises well, 
 and bids fair to be lasting. But they are no 
 sooner separated from each other, by entering 
 into the world at large, than other connexions, 
 and new employments, in which they no longer 
 share together, efface the remembrance of what 
 passed in earlier days, and they become strangers 
 to each other for ever. Add to this, the man 
 frequently differs so much from the boy ; his 
 principles, manners, temper, and conduct, un-
 
 291 
 
 dergo so great an alteration, that we no longer 
 recognize in him our old playfellow, but find 
 him utterly unworthy and unfit for the place he 
 once held in our affections. 
 
 To close this article, as I did the last, by ap- 
 plying myself immediately to the present con- 
 cern little John is happily placed above all 
 
 occasion for dependance on all such precarious 
 hopes, and need not be sent to school in quest 
 of some great man in embryo, who may possibly 
 make his fortune. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER LXIX. 
 
 TO MRS. NEWTON. 
 
 Oct 5, 1780. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 When a lady speaks, it is not 
 civil to make her wait a week for an answer 
 I received your Letter within this hour, and 
 foreseeing that the garden will engross much 
 of my time for some days to come, have seized 
 the present opportunity to acknowledge it. I 
 congratulate vou on Mr. Newton's safe arrival 
 
 v 2
 
 29 c 2 
 
 at Ramsgate, making no doubt but that he 
 reached that place without difficulty or danger, 
 the road thither from Canterbury being so good 
 as to afford room for neither. He has now a 
 view of the element, with which he was once 
 so familiar, but which, I think, he has not seen 
 for many years. The sight of his old acquaint- 
 ance will revive in his mind a pleasing recol- 
 lection of past deliverances, and when he looks 
 at him from the beach, he may say " You have 
 " formerly given me trouble enough, but I have 
 " cast anchor now, where your billows can 
 " never reach me." It is happy for him that 
 he can say so. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin returns you many thanks for 
 your anxiety on her account. Her health is 
 considerably mended upon the whole, so as to 
 afford us a hope that it will be established. 
 
 Our love attends you. 
 
 Yours, dear Madam, 
 
 W.C.
 
 293 
 LETTER LXX. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Nov. 9, 1/80. 
 
 I wrote the following last 
 summer. The tragical occasion of it really hap- 
 pened at the next house to ours. I am glad 
 when I can find a subject to work upon ; a lapi- 
 dary, I suppose, accounts it a laborious part of 
 his business to rub away the roughness of the 
 stone; but it is my amusement, and if, after all 
 the polishing I can give it, it discovers some 
 little lustre, I think myself well rewarded for 
 my pains.* 
 
 I shall charge you a halfpenny apiece for 
 every copy I send you, the short as well as the 
 long. This is a sort of afterclap you little ex- 
 pected, but I cannot possibly afford them at a 
 cheaper rate. If this method of raising money 
 had occurred to me sooner, I should have made 
 the bargain sooner: but am glad I have hit upon 
 it at last. It will be a considerable encourage- 
 ment to my muse, and act as a powerful stimu- 
 
 * Verses on a Goldfinch, starved to death in a cage.
 
 294 
 
 lus to my industry. If the American war should 
 last much longer, I may be obliged to raise my 
 price, but this I shall not do without a real occa- 
 sion for it it depends much upon Lord North's 
 conduct in the article of supplies if he imposes 
 an additional tax on any thing that I deal in, the 
 necessity of this measure, on my part, will be 
 so apparent, that I dare say you will not dis- 
 pute it. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The following letter to Mr. Hill contains a 
 poem already printed in the Works of Cowper; 
 but the reader will probably be gratified, in 
 finding a little favorite piece of pleasantry in- 
 troduced to him, as it was originally dispatched 
 by the author, for the amusement of a friend. 
 
 LETTER LXXI. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 December 25, 1/80. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 Weary with rather a long 
 walk in the snow, I am not likely to write a 
 very sprightly letter, or to produce any thing 
 that may cheer this gloomy season, unless I
 
 295 
 
 have recourse to my pocketbook, where perhaps 
 I may find something to transcribe, something 
 that was written before the sun had taken leave 
 of our hemisphere, and when I was less fatigued 
 than I am at present. 
 
 Happy is the man who knows just so much 
 of the law, as to make himself a little merry now 
 and then with the solemnity of juridical pro- 
 ceedings. I have heard of common law judg- 
 ments before now, .indeed have been present at 
 the delivery of some, that, according to my 
 poor apprehension, while they paid the utmost 
 respect to the letter of the statute, have depart- 
 ed widely from the spirit of it; and, being go- 
 verned entirely by the point of law, have left 
 equity, reason, and common sense behind them 
 at an infinite distance. You will judge whether 
 the following report of a case, drawn up by my- 
 self, be not a proof and illustration of this satiri- 
 cal assertion.
 
 296 
 
 NOSE Plaintiff; 
 EYES Defendants. 
 
 1 
 
 Between Nose and Eyes a sad contest arose, 
 The Spectacles set them unhappily wrong ; 
 The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, 
 To which the said Spectacles ought to belong. 
 
 2 
 
 So the Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause. 
 With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; 
 While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, 
 So fam'd for his talents at nicely discerning. 
 
 3 
 
 " In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear, 
 " And your lordship," he said, " will undoubtedly find, 
 " That the Nose has had Spectacles always in wear, 
 " Which amounts to possession time out of mind." 
 
 Then holding the Spectacles up to the court, 
 
 " Your lordship observes, they are made with a straddle, 
 
 " As wide as the ridge of the Nose is, in short, 
 
 " Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 
 
 " Again, would your lordship a moment suppose, 
 
 (" 'Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again) 
 
 " That the visage or countenance had not a nose, 
 
 " Pray who would, or who could, wear Spectacles then ?
 
 297 
 
 " On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, 
 " With a reasoning, the court will never condemn, 
 " That the Spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, 
 " And the Nose was as plainly intended for them." 
 
 7 
 
 Then shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how, 
 He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes : 
 But what were his arguments few people know, 
 For the court did not think they were equally wise. 
 
 8 
 
 So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone 
 Decisive and clear, without one if or but, 
 *' That whenever the Nose put his Spectacles on, 
 " By daylight or candlelight Eyes should be shut!" 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 W..C.
 
 LETTER LXXII. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 December 1/80. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 Poetical reports of law 
 cases are not very common, yet it seems to me 
 desirable that they should be so. Many advan- 
 tages would accrue from such a measure. They 
 would, in the first place, be more commonly 
 deposited in the memory, just as linen, grocery, 
 or other such matters, when neatly packed, are 
 known to occupy less room, and to lie more 
 conveniently in any trunk, chest, or box, to 
 which they may be committed. In the next 
 place, being divested of that infinite circumlo- 
 cution, and the endless embarrassment in which 
 they are involved by it, they would become sur- 
 prisingly intelligible, in comparison with their 
 present obscurity. And lastly, they would, by 
 this means, be rendered susceptible of musical 
 embellishment, and instead of being quoted in 
 the country, with that dull monotony, which is 
 so wearisome to by-standers, and frequently 
 lulls even the judges themselves to sleep, might 
 be rehearsed in recitation; which would have 
 an admirable effect, in keeping the attention
 
 299 
 
 fixed and lively, and could not fail to disperse 
 that heavy atmosphere of sadness and gravity, 
 which hangs over the jurisprudence of our coun- 
 try. I remember many years ago being inform- 
 ed by a relation of mine, who in his youth had 
 applied himself to the study of the law, that one 
 of his fellow students, a gentleman of sprightly 
 parts, and very respectable talents of the poeti- 
 cal kind, did actually engage in the prosecution 
 of such a design ; for reasons, I suppose, some- 
 what similar to, if not the same, with those I 
 have now suggested. He began with Coke's 
 Institutes; a book so rugged in its style, that 
 an attempt to polish it seemed an Herculean la- 
 bour, and not less arduous and difficult, than it 
 would be to give the smoothness of a rabbit's 
 fur to the prickly back of a hedge-hog. But he 
 succeeded to admiration, as you will perceive 
 by the following specimen, which is all that 
 my said relation could recollect of the perform- 
 ance. 
 
 Tenant in fee 
 
 Simple, is he, 
 And need neither quake nor quiver, 
 
 Who hath his lands 
 
 Free from demands, 
 To him, and his heirs for ever. 
 
 You have an ear for music, and a taste for 
 verse, which saves me the trouble of pointing
 
 300 
 
 out, with a critical nicety, the advantages of 
 such a version. I proceed, therefore, to what I 
 at first intended, and to transcribe the record 
 of an adjudged case, thus managed, to which in- 
 deed what I premised was intended merely as an 
 introduction*. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER LXXIII. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Feb. 15, 178J . 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I am glad you were pleased 
 with my report of so extraordinary a case. If 
 the thought of versifying the decisions of our 
 courts of justice had struck me, while I had the 
 honor to attend them, it would perhaps have 
 been no difficult matter to have compiled a vo- 
 lume of such amusing and interesting prece- 
 dents; which, if they wanted the eloquence of 
 the Greek or Roman oratory, would have amply 
 compensated that deficiency by the harmony of 
 rhyme and metre. 
 
 * This letter concluded with the poetical law case of Nose. 
 plaintiff Eyes, defendants.
 
 301 
 
 Your account of my Uncle and your Mo- 
 ther gave me great pleasure. I have long been 
 afraid to inquire after some in whose welfare I 
 always feel myself interested, lest the question 
 should produce a painful answer. Longevity is 
 the lot of so few, and is so seldom rendered 
 comfortable by the associations of good health, 
 and good spirits, that I could not very reason- 
 ably suppose either your relations or mine so 
 happy in those respects, as it seems they are. 
 May they continue to enjoy those blessings so 
 long as the date of life shall last. I do not 
 think that in these costermonger days, as I have 
 a notion FalstarT calls them, an antediluvian age 
 is at all a desirable thing; but to live comfort- 
 ably, while we do live, is a great matter, and 
 comprehends in it every thing that can be wish- 
 ed for on this side the curtain that hangs be- 
 tween Time and Eternity. 
 
 Farewell my better friend, than any I have 
 to boast of either among the Lords or gentle- 
 men of the House of Commons. 
 
 W.C.
 
 302 
 
 LETTER LXXIV. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 April 2, 1781 
 
 My dear friend, fine weather, 
 and a variety of extraforaneous occupations, 
 (search Johnson's dictionary for the word, and 
 if not found there, insert it for it saves a deal 
 of circumlocution, and is very lawfully com- 
 pounded) make it difficult (excuse the length 
 of a parenthesis, which I did not foresee the 
 length of when I began it, and which may per- 
 haps a little perplex the sense of what I am 
 writing, though, as I seldom deal in that figure 
 of speech, I have the less need to make an apo- 
 logy for doing it at present) make it difficult 
 (I say) for me to find opportunities for writing. 
 My morning is engrossed by the garden; and 
 in the afternoon, till I have drunk tea, I am fit 
 for nothing. At five o'clock we walk ; and when 
 the walk is over, lassitude recommends rest, and 
 again I become fit for nothing. The current 
 hour, therefore, which (I need not tell you) is 
 comprised in the interval between four and five, 
 is devoted to your service, as the only one
 
 303 
 
 in the twenty-four which is not otherwise en- 
 gaged. 
 
 I do not wonder that you have felt a great 
 deal upon the occasion you mention in your last, 
 especially on account of the asperity you have 
 met with in the behaviour of your friend. Re- 
 flect however, that as it is natural to you to 
 have very fine feelings, it is equally natural to 
 some other tempers, to leave those feelings en- 
 tirely out of the question, and to speak to you, 
 and to act towards you, just as they do towards 
 the rest of mankind, without the least attention 
 to the irritability of your system. Men of a 
 rough and unsparing address should take great 
 care, that they be always in the right; the just- 
 ness and propriety of their sentiments and cen- 
 sures being the only tolerable apology, that can 
 be made for such a conduct, especially in a 
 country where civility of behaviour is incul- 
 cated even from the cradle. But in the instance 
 now under our contemplation I think you a suf- 
 ferer under the weight of an animadversion not 
 founded in truth, and which, consequently, you 
 did not deserve. I account him faithful in the 
 pulpit, who dissembles nothing, that he believes, 
 for fear of giving offence. To accommodate a 
 discourse to the judgment and opinion of others, 
 for the sake of pleasing them, though by doing 
 so we are obliged to depart widely from our
 
 304 
 
 own, is to be unfaithful to ourselves at least, and 
 cannot be accounted fidelity to him, whom we 
 profess to serve. But there are few men, who 
 do not stand in need of the exercise of charity 
 and forbearance; and the gentleman in ques- 
 tion has afforded you an ample opportunity in 
 this respect, to show, how readily, though dif- 
 fering in your views, you can practise all, that 
 he could possibly expect from you, if your per- 
 suasion corresponded exactly with his own. 
 
 With respect to Monsieur le Curt, I think 
 you not quite excusable for suffering such a man 
 to give you any uneasiness at all. The grossness 
 and injustice of his demand ought to be its own 
 antidote. If a robber should miscall you a piti- 
 ful fellow, for not carrying a purse full of gold 
 about you, would his brutality give you any 
 concern? I suppose not. Why then have you 
 been distressed in the present instance? 
 
 Yours, 
 
 _ W. C. 
 
 The reviving poet, who had lived half a cen- 
 tury with such a modest idea of his own extra- 
 ordinary talents, that he had hitherto given no 
 composition professedly to the public, now 
 amused himself with preparations to appear as 
 an author. But he hoped to conduct those pre-
 
 305 
 
 parations with a modest secrecy, and was asto- 
 nished to find one of his intimate friends ap- 
 prised of his design. 
 
 The following letters afford a very pleasing, 
 circumstantial account of the manner, in which 
 he was induced to venture into the world as a 
 poet. 
 
 I will only add, to the information they 
 contain, what I learned from the lips of his guar- 
 dian friend, Mrs. Unwin; that she strongly so- 
 licited him, on his recovery from a very long fit 
 of mental dejection, to devote his thoughts to 
 poetiy of considerable extent. She suggested 
 to him, at the same time, the first subject of his 
 verse, " The Progress of Error," which the 
 reader will recollect as the second poem in his 
 first volume. The time when that volume was 
 completed, and the motives of its author for 
 giving it to the world, arc clearly displayed in 
 an admirable letter to his poetical Cousin, Mrs. 
 Cowper; and his feelings, on the approach of 
 publication, are described with his usual noble- 
 ness of sentiment, and simplicity of expression, 
 in reply to a question upon the subject from the 
 anxious young friend, to whom he gave the 
 first notice of his intention in the next letter. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 306 
 LETTER LXXV. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 May 1, 1731. 
 
 Your Mother says I must write, 
 and must admits of no apology; I might other- 
 wise plead, that I have nothing to say, that I 
 am weary, that I am dull, that it would be more 
 convenient therefore for you, as well as for my- 
 self, that I should let it alone: but all these 
 pleas, and whatever pleas besides either disin- 
 clination, indolence, or necessity, might sug- 
 gest, are overruled, as they ought to be, the 
 moment a lady adduces her irrefragable argu- 
 ment, you must. You have still however one 
 comfort left, that what I must write, you may, 
 or may not read, just as it shall please you : un- 
 less Lady Anne at your elbow should say, you 
 must read it, and then like a true knight you 
 will obey without looking for a remedy. 
 
 In the press, and speedily will be published, 
 in one volume octavo, price three shillings, 
 Poems, by William Cowper, of the Inner Temple, 
 Esq. You may suppose, by the size of the pub- 
 lication, that the greatest part of them have
 
 307 
 
 been long kept secret, because you yourself 
 have never seen them; but the truth is, that 
 they are most of them, except what you have 
 in your possession, the produce of the last 
 winter. Two thirds of the compilation will be 
 occupied by four pieces, the first of which 
 sprung up in the month of December, and the 
 last of them in the month of March. They 
 contain, I suppose, in all, about two thousand 
 and five hundred lines; are known, or to be 
 known in due time, by the names of Table 
 Talk The Progress of Error Truth Expos- 
 tulation. Mr. Newton writes a Preface, and 
 Johnson is the publisher. The principal, I may 
 say the only reason, why I never mentioned to 
 you, till now, an affair which I am just going 
 to make known to all the world, (if that Mr. 
 All-the-world should think it Avorth his know- 
 ing) has been this; that till within these few 
 days, I had not the honor to know it myself. 
 This may seem strange, but it is true, for not 
 knowing where to find underwriters, who would 
 choose to insure them.; and not finding it con- 
 venient to a purse like mine, to run any hazard, 
 even upon the credit of my own ingenuity, I 
 was very much in doubt for some weeks, whe- 
 ther any bookseller would be willing to subject 
 himself to an ambiguity, that might prove very 
 expensive in case of a bad market. But John- 
 x 2
 
 S08 
 
 son has heroically set all peradventures at de- 
 fiance, and takes the whole charge upon himself. 
 So out I come. I shall be glad of my Trans- 
 lations from Vincent Bourne, in your next frank. 
 My Muse will lay herself at your feet imme- 
 diately on her first public appearance. 
 Yours, my dear friend, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER LXXVI. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 May 9, 1781. 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 I am in the press, and it is in 
 vain to deny it. But how mysterious is the 
 conveyance of intelligence from one end to the 
 other of your great city ! Not many days since, 
 except one man, and he but little taller than 
 yourself, all London was ignorant of it; for I 
 do not suppose that the public prints have yet 
 announced the most agreeable tidings ; the title- 
 page, which is the basis of the advertisement, 
 having so lately reached the publisher: and 
 now it is known to you, who live at least 
 two miles distant from my confidant upon the 
 occasion.
 
 309 
 
 My labours are principally the production of 
 the last winter; all indeed, except a few of the 
 minor pieces. When I can find no other occu- 
 pation, I think, and when I think, I am very 
 apt to do it in rhyme. Hence it comes to pass, 
 that the season of the year, which generally 
 pinches off the flowers of poetry, unfolds mine, 
 such as they are, and crowns me with a winter 
 garland. In this respect therefore, I and my 
 contemporary bards are by no means upon a 
 par. They write when the delightful influences 
 of fine weather, fine prospects, and a brisk mo- 
 tion of the animal spirits, make poetry almost 
 the language of nature ; and I, when icicles de- 
 pend from all the leaves of the Parnassian laurel, 
 and when a reasonable man would as little ex- 
 pect to succeed in verse, as to hear a blackbird 
 whistle. This must be my apology to you for 
 whatever want of fire and animation you may 
 observe in what you will shortly have the pe- 
 rusal of. As to the Public, if they like me not, 
 there is no remedy. A friend will weigh and 
 consider all disadvantages, and make as large 
 allowances as an author can wish, and larger 
 perhaps than he has any right to expect; but 
 not so the world at large ; whatever they do not 
 like, they will not by any apology be persuaded 
 to forgive, and it would be in vain to tell them, 
 that I wrote my verses in January, for they
 
 310 
 
 would immediately reply, " Why did not you 
 
 write them in May?" A question that might 
 
 puzzle a wiser head than we poets are generally 
 
 blessed with. 
 
 W.C. 
 
 LETTER LXXVIL 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 May 10, 17SI. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 It is Friday; I have just drunk 
 tea, and just perused your letter; and though 
 this answer to it cannot set off till Sunday, I 
 obey the warm impulse I feel, which will not 
 permit me to postpone the business till the re- 
 gular time of writing. 
 
 I expected you would be grieved; if you had 
 not been so, those sensibilities, which attend 
 you upon every other occasion, must have left 
 you upon this. I am sorry that I have given 
 you pain, but not sorry that you have felt it. 
 A concern of that sort would be absurd, because 
 it would be to regret your friendship for me, and 
 to be dissatisfied with the effect of it. Allov 
 yourself however three minutes only for reflec-
 
 311 
 
 tion, and your penetration must necessarily dive 
 into the motives of my conduct. In the first 
 place, and by way of preface, remember that I 
 do not (whatever your partiality may incline 
 you to do) account it of much consequence to 
 any friend of mine, whether he is, or is not, em- 
 ployed by me upon such an occasion. But all 
 affected renunciations of poetical merit apart, 
 (and all unaffected expressions of the sense I 
 have of my own littleness in the poetical cha- 
 racter too,) the obvious and only reason, why I 
 resorted to Mr. Newton, and not to my friend 
 
 Unwin, was this that the former lived in 
 
 London, the latter at Stock; the former was 
 upon the spot to correct the press, to give in- 
 structions respecting any sudden alterations, 
 and to settle with the publisher every thing that 
 might possibly occur in the course of such a bu- 
 siness: the latter could not be applied to, for 
 these purposes, without what would be a mani- 
 fest encroachment on his kindness; because it 
 might happen, that the troublesome office might 
 cost him now and then a journey, which it 
 was absolutely impossible for me to endure the 
 thought of. 
 
 When I wrote to you for the copies you 
 have sent me, I told you I was making a collec- 
 tion, but not with a design to publish. There 
 is nothing truer, than at that time I had not the
 
 S12 
 
 smallest expectation of sending a volume of 
 Poems to the press. I had several small pieces, 
 that might amuse, but I would not, when I pub- 
 lish, make the amusement of the reader my only 
 object. When the winter deprived me of other 
 employments, I began to compose, and seeing 
 six or seven months before me, which would 
 naturally afford me much leisure for such a pur- 
 pose, I undertook a piece of some length ; that 
 finished, another; and so on, till I had amassed 
 the number of lines I mentioned in my last. 
 
 Believe of me what you please, but not that 
 I am indifferent to you, or your friendship for 
 me, on any occasion. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER LXXVIII. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 May 23, 178I. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 If a writer's friends have need 
 of patience, how much more the writer! Your 
 desire to see my muse in public, and mine to 
 gratify you, must both suffer the mortification
 
 313 
 
 of delay I expected that my trumpeter would 
 have informed the world by this time of all 
 that is needful for them to know upon such an 
 occasion; and that an advertizing blast, blown 
 through every news-paper, would have said 
 " The poet is coming." But man, especially 
 man that writes verse, is born to disappoint- 
 ments, as surely as printers and booksellers are 
 born to be the most dilatory and tedious of all 
 creatures. The plain English of this magnifi- 
 cent preamble is, that the season of publication 
 is just elapsed, that the town is going into the 
 country every day, and that my book cannot 
 appear till they return, that is to say not till 
 next winter. This misfortune however comes 
 not without its attendant advantage; I shall 
 now have, what I should not otherwise have 
 had, an opportunity to correct the press myself; 
 no small advantage upon any occasion, but espe- 
 cially important, where poetry is concerned ! A 
 single erratum may knock out the brains of a 
 a whole passage, and that perhaps, which of all 
 others the unfortunate poet is the most proud 
 of. Add to this, that now and then there is to 
 be found in a printing house a presumptuous in- 
 termeddler, who will fancy himself a poet too, 
 and what is still worse, a better than he that 
 employs him. The consequence is, that with 
 cobbling, and tinkering, and patching on here
 
 S14 
 
 and there a shred of his own, he makes such a 
 difference between the original and the copy, 
 that an author cannot know his own work again. 
 Now as I choose to be responsible for nobody's 
 dulness but my own, I am a little comforted, 
 when I reflect, that it will be in my power to 
 prevent all such impertinence, and yet not with- 
 out your assistance. It will be quite necessary, 
 that the correspondence between me and John- 
 son should be carried on without the expense of 
 postage, because proof sheets would make double 
 or treble letters, which expense, as in every in- 
 stance it must occur twice, first when the packet 
 is sent, and again when it is returned, would be 
 rather inconvenient to me, who as you perceive, 
 am forced to live by my wits, and to him, who 
 hopes to get a little matter, no doubt, by the 
 same means. Half a dozen franks, therefore to 
 me, and totidem to him, will be singularly ac- 
 ceptable, if you can, without feeling it in any 
 respect a trouble, procure them for me. 
 
 I am much obliged to you for your offer to 
 support me in a translation of Bourne. It is 
 but seldom however, and never except for my 
 amusement, that I translate; because I find it 
 disagreeable to work by another man's pattern; 
 I should at least be sure to find it so in a busi- 
 ness of any length. Again that is epigrammatic 
 and witty in Latin, which would be perfectly
 
 315 
 
 insipid in English, and a translator of Bourne 
 would frequently find himself obliged to supply 
 what is called the turn, which is in fact the 
 most difficult, and the most expensive part of 
 the whole composition, and could not perhaps, 
 in many instances, be done with any tolerable 
 success. If a Latin poem is neat, elegant, and 
 musical, it is enough but English readers are 
 not so easily satisried. To quote myself, you 
 will find, in comparing the Jack-daw with the 
 original, that I was obliged to sharpen a point, 
 which, though smart enough in the Latin, Mould, 
 in English, have appeared as plain, and as blunt, 
 as the tag of a lace. I love the memory of 
 Vinny Bourne. I think him a better Latin poet 
 than Tibullus, Propertius, Ausonius, or any of 
 the writers in his way, except Ovid, and not at 
 all inferior to him. I love him too, with a love 
 of partiality, because he was usher of the fifth 
 form at Westminster, when I passed through it. 
 He was so good natured, and so indolent, that I 
 lost more than I got by him ; for he made me 
 as idle as himself. He was such a sloven, as if 
 he had trusted to his genius as a cloak for every 
 thing that could disgust you in his person ; and 
 indeed in his writings, he has almost made 
 amends for all. His humour is entirely ori- 
 ginal he can speak of a magpie or a cat in 
 terms so exclusively appropriated to the cha-
 
 3\6 
 
 racter lie draws, that one would suppose him 
 animated by the spirit of the creature he de- 
 scribes. And with all his drollery, there is a 
 mixture of rational, and even religious reflec- 
 tion, at times ; and always an air of pleasantry, 
 good-nature, and humanity, that makes him, in 
 my mind, one of the most amiable writers in the 
 world. It is not common to meet with an author, 
 who can make you smile, and yet at nobody's 
 expense; who is always entertaining, and yet 
 always harmless; and who, though always ele- 
 gant, and classical to a degree not always found 
 in the classics themselves, charms more by the 
 simplicity and playfulness of his ideas, than by 
 the neatness and purity of his verse; yet such 
 was poor Vinny. I remember seeing the Duke 
 of Richmond set fire to his greasy locks, and 
 box his ears to put it out again. Since I began 
 to write long poems, I seem to turn up my nose 
 at the idea of a short one. I have lately entered 
 upon one, which, if ever finished, cannot easily 
 be comprised in much less than a thousand lines! 
 But this must make part of a second publication, 
 and be accompanied, in due time, by others not 
 yet thought of; for it seems (what I did not 
 know till the bookseller had occasion to tell me 
 so) that single pieces stand no chance, and that 
 nothing less than a volume will go down. You 
 yourself afford me a proof of the certainty of
 
 317 
 
 this intelligence, by sending me franks, which 
 nothing less than a volume can fill. I have ac- 
 cordingly sent you one, but am obliged to add, 
 that had the wind been in any other point of the 
 compass, or, blowing as it does from the east, 
 had it been less boisterous, you must have been 
 contented with a much shorter letter, but the 
 abridgment of every other occupation is very 
 favorable to that of writing. 
 
 I am glad I did not expect to hear from 
 you by this post, for the boy has lost the bag in 
 which your letter must have been enclosed 
 another reason tor my prolixity ! 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 W. C.
 
 31S 
 LETTER LXXIX. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 May, 1781. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I believe, I never give you 
 trouble without feeling more than I give; so 
 much by way of preface and apology ! 
 
 Thus stands the case Johnson has begun 
 to print, and Mr. Newton has already corrected 
 the first sheet. This unexpected despatch makes, 
 it necessary for me to furnish myself with the 
 means of communication, viz. the franks, as 
 soon as may be. There are reasons (I believe I 
 mentioned them in my last) why I choose to 
 revise the proofs myself: nevertheless, if your 
 delicacy must suffer the puncture of a pin's 
 point, in procuring the franks for me, I release 
 you entirely from the task; you are as free as 
 if I had never mentioned them. But vou will 
 oblige me by a speedy answer upon this subject, 
 because it is expedient, that the printer should 
 know to whom he is to send his copy; and, 
 when the press is once set, those humble ser- 
 vants of the poets are rather impatient of any 
 delay, because the types are wanted for other 
 authors, who are equally impatient to be born.
 
 319 
 
 This fine weather I suppose sets you on horse-, 
 back, and allures the ladies into the garden. If 
 I was at Stock, I should be of their party; and 
 while they sat knotting or netting in the shade, 
 should comfort myself with the thought, that I 
 had not a beast under me, whose walk Mould 
 seem tedious, whose trot would jumble me, and 
 whose gallop might throw me into a ditch. What 
 nature expressly designed me for, I have never 
 been able to conjecture; I seem to myself so 
 universally disqualified for the common and cus- 
 tomary occupations and amusements of man- 
 kind. When I was a boy, I excelled at cricket 
 and foot ball, but the fame I acquired by achieve- 
 ments that way is long since forgotten, and I 
 do not know that I have made a figure in any 
 thing since. I am sure however, that she did 
 not design me for a horseman; and that, if all 
 men were of my mind, there would be an end 
 of all jockeyship for ever. I am rather strait- 
 ened for time, and not very rich in materials, 
 therefore, with our joint love to you all, con- 
 clude myself, 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 W. C.
 
 320 
 LETTER LXXX. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 June 5, 1781. 
 
 My deaf friend, if the old adage be 
 true, that " he gives twice, who gives speedily," 
 it is equally true, that he who not only uses ex- 
 pedition in giving, but gives more than was 
 asked, gives thrice at least. Such is the style 
 
 in which Mr. confers a favor. He has not 
 
 only sent me franks to Johnson, but, under an- 
 other cover, has added six to you. These last, 
 for aught that appears by your letter, he threw 
 in of his own mere bounty. I beg that my share 
 of thanks may not be wanting on this occasion, 
 and that, when you write to him next, you will 
 assure him of the sense I have of the obliga- 
 tion, which is the more flattering, as it includes 
 a proof of his predilection in favor of the poems, 
 his franks are destined to enclose. May they 
 not forfeit his good opinion hereafter, nor yours, 
 to whom I hold myself indebted in the first 
 place, and who have equally given me credit 
 for their deservings ! Your Mother says, that, 
 although there are passages in them containing 
 opinions, which will not be universally sub-
 
 321 
 
 scribed to, the world will at least allow, what 
 my great modesty will not permit me to sub- 
 join. I have the highest opinion of her judg- 
 ment, and know, by having experienced the 
 soundness of them, that her observations are 
 always worthy of attention and regard. Yet, 
 strange as it may seem, I do not feel the vanity 
 of an author, when she commends me but I 
 feel something better, a spur to my diligence, 
 and a cordial to my spirits, both together ani- 
 mating me to deserve, at least not to fall short 
 of her expectations. For I verily believe, if 
 my dullness should earn me the character of a 
 dunce, the censure would affect her more than 
 me; not that I am insensible of the value of a 
 good name, either as a man or an author. With- 
 out an ambition to attain it, it is absolutely un- 
 attainable under either of those descriptions. 
 But my life having been in many respects a 
 series of mortifications and disappointments, I 
 am become less apprehensive and impressible 
 perhaps in some points, than I should otherwise 
 have been; and though I should be exquisitely 
 sorry to disgrace my friends, could endure my 
 own share of the affliction with a reasonable 
 measure of tranquillity. 
 
 These seasonable showers have poured floods 
 upon all the neighbouring parishes, but have 
 passed us by. My garden languishes, and, what 
 
 vol. i. y
 
 322 
 
 fs worse, the fields too languish, and the upland- 
 grass is burnt. These discriminations are not 
 fortuitous. But if they are providential, what 
 do they import? I can only answer, as a friend 
 of mine once answered a mathematical question 
 in the schools " Prorsiis nescio." Perhaps it 
 is, that men, who will not believe what they 
 cannot understand, may learn the folly of their 
 conduct, while their very senses are made to 
 witness against them; and themselves in the 
 course of Providence become the subjects of 
 a thousand dispensations they cannot explain. 
 But the end is never answered. The lesson is 
 inculcated indeed frequently enough, but no- 
 body learns it. Well. Instruction, vouchsafed 
 in vain, is (I suppose) a debt to be accounted 
 for hereafter. You must understand this to be 
 a soliloquy. I wrote my thoughts, without re- 
 collecting that I was writing a letter, and to 
 you. 
 
 W, C.
 
 323 
 
 LETTER LXXXI. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 June 24, 1781. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 The letter you withheld so 
 long, lest it should give me pain, gave me plea- 
 sure. Horace says, the poets are a waspish race ; 
 and from my own experience of the temper of 
 two or three, with whom I was formerly con- 
 nected, I can readily subscribe to the character 
 he gives them. But for my own part, I have 
 never yet felt that excessive irritability, which 
 some writers discover, when a friend, in the 
 words of Pope, 
 
 " Just hints a fault, or hesitates dislike." 
 
 Least of all would I give way to such an unsea- 
 sonable ebullition, merely because a civil ques- 
 tion is proposed to me with such gentleness, and 
 by a man whose concern for my credit and cha- 
 racter I verily believe to be sincere. I reply, 
 therefore, not peevishly, but with a sense of the 
 kindness of your intentions, that I hope you 
 may make yourself very easy on a subject, that 
 I can perceive has occasioned you some solici- 
 
 y 2
 
 324 
 
 tude. When I wrote the poem called Truth, it 
 was indispensably necessary, that I should set 
 forth that doctrine, which I know to be true; 
 and that I should pass what I understood to be 
 a just censure upon opinions and persuasions, 
 that differ from, or stand in direct opposition to 
 it; because though some errors may be inno- 
 cent, and even religious errors are not always 
 pernicious, yet in a case where the faith and 
 hope of a Christian are concerned, they must 
 necessarily be destructive; and because, neglect- 
 ing this, I should have betrayed my subject; 
 either suppressing, what in my judgment is of 
 the last importance, or giving countenance, by 
 a timid silence, to the very evils it was my de- 
 sign to combat. That you may understand me 
 better, I will subjoin that I wrote that poem 
 on purpose to inculcate the eleemosynary cha- 
 racter of the Gospel, as a dispensation of mercy, 
 in the most absolute sense of the word, to the 
 exclusion of all claims of merit on the part of 
 the receiver; consequently to set the brand of 
 invalidity upon the plea of works, and to disco- 
 ver, upon spiritual ground, the absurdity of that 
 notion, which includes a solecism in the very 
 terms of it, that man, by repentance, and good 
 works, may deserve the mercy of his Maker: 
 I call it a solecism, because mercy deserved 
 ceases to be mercy, and must take the name of
 
 335 
 
 justice. This is the opinion, which I said in my 
 last the world would not acquiesce in; but ex- 
 cept this, I do not recollect that I have intro- 
 duced a syllable into any of my pieces, that 
 they can possibly object to; and even this I 
 have endeavoured to deliver from doctrinal dry- 
 ness, by as many pretty tilings, in the way of 
 trinket and plaything, as I could muster upon 
 the subject. So that if I have rubbed their 
 gums, I have taken care to do it with a coral, 
 and even that coral embellished by the ribbon 
 to which it is tied, and recommended by the 
 tinkling of all the bells I could contrive to an*- 
 nex to it. 
 
 You need not trouble yourself to call on 
 Johnson; being perfectly acquainted with the 
 progress of the business, I am able to satisfy 
 your curiosity myself the post before the last, 
 I returned to him the second sheet of Table 
 Talk, which he had sent me for correction, and 
 which stands foremost in the volume. The de- 
 lay has enabled me to add a piece of consider- 
 able length, which, but for the delay, would not 
 have made its appearance upon this occasion; it 
 answers to the name of Hope. 
 
 I remember a line in the Odyssey, which, 
 literally translated, imports, that there is no- 
 thing in the world more impudent than the 
 belly. But had Homer met with an instance of
 
 326 
 
 modesty like yours, he would either have sup- 
 pressed that observation, or at least have quali- 
 fied it with an exception. I hope that, for the 
 future, Mrs. Unwin will never suffer you to go 
 to London, without putting some victuals in 
 your pocket; for what a strange article would 
 it make in a news-paper, that a tall, well-dressed 
 gentleman, by his appearance a clergyman, and 
 with a purse of gold in his pocket, was found 
 starved to death in the street. How would it 
 puzzle conjecture, to account for such a pheno- 
 menon! Some would suppose that you had been 
 kidnapped, like Betty Canning, of hungry me- 
 mory; others would say, the gentleman was a 
 Methodist, and had practised a rigorous self- 
 denial, which had unhappily proved too hard 
 for his constitution; but I will venture to say, 
 that nobody would divine the real cause, or sus- 
 pect for a moment, that your modesty had oc- 
 casioned the tragedy in question. By the way, 
 is it not possible, that the spareness and slen- 
 derness of your person may be owing to the 
 same cause? for surely it is reasonable to sus- 
 pect, that the bashfulness which could prevail 
 against you, on so trying an occasion, may be 
 equally prevalent on others. I remember hav- 
 ing been told by Colman, that when he once 
 dined with Garrick, he repeatedly pressed him 
 to eat more of a certain dish, that he was known
 
 327 
 
 to be particularly fond of; Colman as often re- 
 fused, and at last declared he could not : " But 
 could not you," says Garrick, ** if you was in a 
 dark closet by yourself?" The same question 
 might perhaps be put to you, with as much, or 
 more propriety, and therefore I recommend it 
 to you, either to furnish yourself with a little 
 more assurance, or always to eat in the dark. 
 
 We sympathize with Mrs. Unwin, and if it 
 will be any comfort to her to know it, can as- 
 sure her, that a lady in our neighbourhood is 
 always, on such occasions, the most miserable 
 of all things^ and yet escapes with great faci- 
 lity, through all the dangers of her state. 
 
 Yours, ut semper, 
 
 \V. C.
 
 LETTER LXXXII. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 July 6, 1781. 
 
 We are obliged to you for the 
 rugs, a commodity that can never come to such 
 a place as this at an unseasonable time. We 
 have given one to an industrious poor widow, 
 with four children, whose sister overheard her 
 shivering in the night, and with some difficulty 
 brought her to confess the next morning, that 
 she was half perished for want of sufficient co- 
 vering. Her said sister borrowed a rug for her 
 at a neighbour's immediately, which she had 
 used only one night when yours arrived: and 
 I doubt not, but we shall meet with others, 
 equally indigent, and deserving of your bounty. 
 Much good may your humanity do you, as 
 it does so much good to others ! You can no 
 where find objects more entitled to your pity, 
 than where your pity seeks them. A man, whose 
 vices and irregularities have brought his liberty 
 and life into danger, will always be viewed with 
 an eye of compassion by those, who understand 
 what human nature is made of; and while we
 
 329 
 
 acknowledge the severities of the law to be 
 founded upon principles of necessity and jus- 
 tice, and are glad that there is such a barrier 
 provided for the peace of society, if we consi- 
 der, that the difference between ourselves and 
 the culprit is not of our own making, we shall 
 be, as you are, tenderly affected by the view of 
 his misery ; and not the less so, because he has 
 brought it upon himself. 
 
 I give you joy of your own hair, no doubt 
 you are considerably a gainer in your appear- 
 ance, by being disperizvigged. The best wig is 
 that, which most resembles the natural hair. 
 Why then should he, who has hair enough of 
 his own, have recourse to imitation? I have lit- 
 tle doubt, but that if an arm or leg could have 
 been taken off with as little pain, as attends the 
 amputation of a curl or a lock of hair, the na- 
 tural limb would have been thought less becom- 
 ing, or less convenient, by some men, than a 
 wooden one, and have been disposed of accord- 
 ingly- 
 Having begun my letter with a miserable 
 
 pen, I was unwilling to change it for a better, 
 lest my writing should not be all of a piece. But 
 it has worn me and my patience quite out. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 W. C.
 
 330 
 LETTER LXXXIII. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 July 12, 1781. 
 MY VERY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I am going to send, what 
 when you have read, you may scratch your head, 
 and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows, whe- 
 ther what I have got, be verse or not by the 
 tune and the time, it ought to be rhyme, but if 
 it be, did you ever see, of late or of yore, such 
 a ditty before? 
 
 I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but 
 as well as I could, in hopes to do good ; and if 
 the Reviewer, should say " to be sure, the gen- 
 " tleman's muse, wears Methodist shoes, you 
 " may know by her pace, and talk about grace, 
 " that she and her bard have little regard, for 
 " the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, 
 " and hoidening play, of the modern day ; and 
 " though she assume a borrowed plume, and 
 " now and then wear a tittering air, 'tis only 
 " her plan, to catch if she can, the giddy and 
 " gay, as they go that way, by a production, on 
 " a new construction; she has baited her trap, 
 " in hopes to snap all that may come, with a
 
 331 
 
 " sugar-plum." His opinion in this will not 
 
 be amiss; 'tis what I intend, my principal end, 
 and if I succeed, and folks should read, till a 
 few are brought to a serious thought, I shall 
 think I am paid, for all I have said, and all I 
 have done, though I have run, many a time, 
 after a rhyme, as far as from hence, to the end 
 of my sense, and by hook or crook, write an- 
 other book, if I live and am here, another year. 
 I have heard before, of a room with a floor, 
 laid upon springs, and such like things, with so 
 much art, in every part, that when you went in, 
 you was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an 
 air and a grace, swimming about, now in, and 
 now out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, 
 without pipe or string, or any such thing; and 
 now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will 
 make you dance, and as you advance, will keep 
 you still, though against your will, dancing 
 away, alert and gay, till you come to an end 
 of what I have penn'd, which that you may do, 
 ere Madam and you, are quite worn out with 
 jigging about, I take my leave, and here you 
 receive, a bow profound, down to the ground, 
 from your humble me 
 
 W. C
 
 332 
 LETTER LXXXIV. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN, 
 
 Oct. 6, 1781. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 What a world are you daily 
 conversant with, which I have not seen these 
 twenty years, and shall never see again! The 
 arts of dissipation (I suppose) are no where prac- 
 tised with more refinement, or success, than at 
 the place of your present residence. By your 
 account of it, it seems to be just what it was 
 when I visited it, a scene of idleness and luxury, 
 music, dancing, cards, walking, riding, bathing, 
 eating, drinking, coffee, tea, scandal, dressing, 
 yawning, sleeping, the rooms perhaps more mag- 
 nificent, because the proprietors are grown rich- 
 er, but the manners and occupations of the com- 
 pany just the same. Though my life has long 
 been like that of a recluse, I have not the temper 
 of one, nor am I in the least an enemy to cheer- 
 fulness and good-humour; but I cannot envy 
 you your situation ; I even feel myself con- 
 strained to prefer the silence of this nook, and 
 the snug fireside in our own diminutive parlour, 
 to all the splendour and gayety of Brighton.
 
 333 
 
 You ask me, how I feel on the occasion of 
 my approaching publication? Perfectly at my 
 ease. If I had not been pretty well assured be- 
 fore hand, that my tranquillity would be but 
 little endangered by such a measure, I would 
 never have engaged in it; for I cannot bear 
 disturbance. I have had in view two prin- 
 cipal objects; first, to amuse myself and se- 
 condly, to compass that point in such a man- 
 ner, that others might possibly be the better 
 for my amusement. If I have succeeded, it will 
 give me pleasure; but if I have failed, I shall 
 not be mortified to the degree that might per- 
 haps be expected. I remember an old adage 
 (though not where it is to be found), " bene 
 vixit, qui bene latuitj" and if I had recollected 
 it at the right time, it should have been the 
 motto to my book. By the way, it will make 
 an excellent one for Retirement, if you can but 
 tell me whom to quote for it. The critics can- 
 not deprive me of the pleasure I have in reflect- 
 ing, that so far as my leisure has been employed 
 in writing for the public, it has been conscien- 
 tiously employed with a view to their advan- 
 tage. There is nothing agreeable, to be sure, 
 in being chronicled for a dunce ; but I believe, 
 there lives not a man upon Earth, who avouUI 
 be less affected by it than myself. With all 
 this indifference to fame, which vou know me
 
 334 
 
 too well to suppose me capable of affecting, I 
 have taken the utmost pains to deserve it. This 
 may appear a mystery, or a paradox in practice, 
 but it is true. I considered that the taste of the 
 day is refined, and delicate to excess, and that 
 to disgust that delicacy of taste, by a slovenly 
 inattention to it, would be to forfeit at once all 
 hope of being useful; and for this reason, though 
 I have written more verse this last year, than 
 perhaps any man in England, I have finished, 
 and polished, and touched, and retouched, with 
 the utmost care. If after all I should be con- 
 verted into waste paper, it may be my misfor- 
 tune, but it will not be my fault. I shall bear 
 it with the most perfect serenity. 
 
 I do not mean to give a copy; he is a 
 
 good-natured little man, and crows exactly like 
 a cock, but knows no more of verse than the 
 cock he imitates. 
 
 Whoever supposes that Lady Austen's for- 
 tune is precarious, is mistaken. I can assure 
 you, upon the ground of the most circumstan- 
 tial and authentic information, that it is both 
 genteel, and perfectly safe. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W. C.
 
 335 
 LETTER LXXXV. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Oct. 19, 1/81. 
 MY DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 Your fear lest I should think 
 you unworthy of my correspondence, on ac- 
 count of your delay to answer, may change sides 
 now, and more properly belongs to me. It is 
 long since I received your last, and yet I be- 
 lieve I can say truly, that not a post has gone 
 by me since the receipt of it, that has not re- 
 minded me of the debt I owe you, for your 
 obliging and unreserved communications both 
 in prose and verse, especially for the latter, be- 
 cause I consider them as marks of your peculiar 
 confidence. The truth is, I have been such a 
 verse-maker myself, and so busy in preparing a 
 volume for the press, which I imagine will make 
 its appearance in the course of the winter, that 
 I hardly had leisure to listen to the calls of any 
 other engagement. It is however finished, and 
 gone to the printer's, and I have nothing now 
 to do with it, but to correct the sheets as they 
 are sent to me, and consign it over to the judg- 
 ment of the public. It is a bold undertaking at 
 this time of day, when so many writers of the
 
 336 
 
 9 
 
 greatest abilities have gone before, who seem to 
 have anticipated every valuable subject, as well 
 as all the graces of poetical embellishment, to 
 step forth into the world in the character of 
 a bard, especially when it is considered, that 
 luxury, idleness, and vice, have debauched the 
 public taste, and that nothing hardly is wel- 
 come, but childish fiction, or what has at least 
 a tendency to excite a laugh. I thought how- 
 ever, that I had stumbled upon some subjects, 
 that had never before been poetically treated, 
 and upon some others, to which I imagined it 
 would not be difficult to give an air of novelty, 
 by the manner of treating them. My sole drift 
 is to be useful; a point which however I knew 
 I should in vain aim at, unless I could be like- 
 wise entertaining. I have therefore fixed these 
 two strings upon my bow, and by the help of 
 both have done my best to send my arrow to 
 the mark. My readers will hardly have begun 
 to laugh, before they will be called upon to cor- 
 rect that levity, and peruse me with a more se- 
 rious air. As to the effect, I leave it alone in 
 His hands, who can alone produce it; neither 
 prose nor verse can reform the manners of a 
 dissolute age, much less can they inspire a sense 
 of religious obligation, unless assisted and made 
 efficacious by the power, who superintends the 
 truth he has vouchsafed to impart.
 
 337 
 
 You made my heart ache with a sympathetic 
 Sorrow, when you described the state of your 
 mind on occasion of your late visit into Hert- 
 fordshire. Had I been previously informed of 
 your journey before you made it, I should have 
 been able to have foretold all your feelings with 
 the most unerring certainty of prediction. You 
 will never cease to feel upon that subject; but 
 with your principles of resignation, and acqui- 
 escence in the divine will, you will always feel 
 as becomes a Christian. We are forbidden to 
 murmur, but we are not forbidden to regret; 
 and whom we loved tenderly while living, we 
 may still pursue with an affectionate remem- 
 brance, without having any occasion to charge 
 ourselves with rebellion against the sovereignty 
 that appointed a separation. A day is coming, 
 when, I am confident, you will see and know, 
 that mercy to both parties was the principal 
 agent in a scene, the recollection of which is 
 still painful. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 Those who read what the poet has here said 
 of his intended publication may perhaps think 
 it strange, that it was introduced to the world 
 with a Preface, not written by himself, but by 
 his friend Mr. Newton. The circumstance is 
 vol. i. z
 
 338 
 
 singular; but it arose from two amiable pecu- 
 liarities in the character of Cowper his ex- 
 treme diffidence in regard to himself, and his 
 kind eagerness to gratify the affectionate am- 
 bition of a friend, whom he tenderly esteemed. 
 Mr. Newton has avowed the fervency of this 
 ambition in a very ingenuous and manly man- 
 ner; and they must have little candour indeed, 
 who are disposed to cavil at his alacrity in pre- 
 senting himself to the public as the bosom friend 
 of that incomparable author, whom he had at- 
 tended so faithfully in sickness and sorrow. I 
 hope it is no sin to covet honor as the friend of 
 Cowper, for if it is, I fear I may say but too 
 truly in the words of Shakespeare, 
 
 " I am the most offending soul alive." 
 
 Happy, however, if I may be able so to conduct 
 and finish this biographical compilation, that 
 those, who knew and loved him best, may be 
 the most willing to applaud me as his friend ; 
 a title, that my heart prefers to almost every 
 other distinction ! 
 
 In the course of the following letters, the 
 reader will find occasion to admire the grateful 
 delicacy of the poet, not only toward the writer 
 of his Preface, but even in the liberal praise 
 with which he speaks of his publisher.
 
 339 
 LETTER LXXXVI. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Nov. 5, ]/Sl 
 MY DEAR WILLIAM, 
 
 I give you joy of your safe 
 return from the lips of the great deep. You did 
 not discern many signs of sobriety, or true wis- 
 dom, among the people of Brighthelmstone; 
 but it is not possible to observe the manners of 
 a multitude, of whatever rank, without learning 
 something; I mean, if a man has a mind like 
 yours, capable of reflection. If he sees nothing 
 to imitate, he is sure to see something to avoid; 
 if nothing to congratulate his fellow creatures 
 upon, at least much to excite his compassion. 
 There is not, I think, so melancholy a sight in 
 the world (an hospital is not to be compared 
 with it) as that of a thousand persons distin- 
 guished by the name of gentry, who, gentle 
 perhaps by nature, and made more gentle by 
 education, have the appearance of being inno- 
 cent and inoffensive, yet being destitute of all 
 religion, or not at all governed by the religion 
 they profess, are none of them at any great dis- 
 tance from an eternal state, where self-decep- 
 
 * 2
 
 340 
 
 tion will be impossible, and where amusements 
 cannot enter. Some of them, we may say, will 
 be reclaimed it is most probable indeed that 
 some of them will, because mercy, if one may 
 be allowed the expression, is fond of distin- 
 guishing itself by seeking its objects among the 
 most desperate class ; but the Scripture gives no 
 encouragement to the warmest charity to hope 
 for deliverance for them all. When I see an af- 
 flicted and unhappy man, I say to myself, there 
 is perhaps a man, whom the world would envy> 
 if they knew the value of his sorrows, which 
 are possibly intended only to soften his heart, 
 and to turn his afflictions toward their proper 
 centre. But when I see or hear of a crowd of 
 voluptuaries, who have no ears but for music, 
 no eyes but for splendour, and no tongue but 
 for impertinence and folly I say, or at least I 
 see occasion to say This is madness This per- 
 sisted in must have a tragical conclusion It 
 will condemn you, not only as Christians un- 
 worthy of the name, but as intelligent crea- 
 tures You know by the light of nature, if you 
 have not quenched it, that there is a God, and 
 that a life like yours cannot be according to 
 his will. 
 
 I ask no pardon of you for the gravity and 
 gloominess of these reflections, which I stum- 
 bled on when I least expected it; though to say
 
 341 
 
 the truth, these, or others of a like complexion 
 are sure to occur to me, when I think of a scene 
 of public diversion like that you have lately 
 left. 
 
 I am inclined to hope, that Johnson told you 
 the truth, when he said he should publish me 
 soon after Christmas. His press has been rather 
 more punctual in its remittances, than it used 
 to be; we have now but little more than two of 
 the longest pieces, and the small ones that are 
 to follow, by way of epilogue, to print oif, and 
 then the affair is finished. But once more I am 
 obliged to gape for franks; only these, which I 
 hope will be the last I shall want, at yours, and 
 
 Mr. 's convenient leisure. 
 
 . We rejoice that you have so much reason to 
 be satisfied with John's proficiency. The more 
 spirit he has, the better, if his spirit is but ma- 
 nageable, and put under such management, as 
 your prudence and Mrs. Unwin's will suggest. 
 I need not guard you against severity, of which 
 I conclude there is no need, and which I am 
 sure you are not at all inclined to practise with- 
 out it; but, perhaps, if I was to whisper be- 
 ware of too much indulgence I should only 
 give a hint, that the fondness of a father for a 
 fine boy might seem to justify. I have no par- 
 ticular reason for the caution, at this distance 
 jt is not possible I should, but in a case like
 
 342 
 
 yours an admonition of that sort seldom wants 
 
 propriety. 
 
 Yours my dear friend, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER LXXXVII. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Nov. 26, .1781, 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I wrote to you by the last 
 post, supposing you at Stock ; but lest that let- 
 ter should not follow you to Laytonstone, and 
 you should suspect me of unreasonable delay, 
 and lest the frank you have sent me should 
 degenerate into waste paper, and perish upon 
 my hands, I write again. The former letter, 
 however, containing all my present stock of in- 
 telligence, it is more than possible, that this 
 may prove a blank, or but little worthy your 
 acceptance. You will do me the justice to sup- 
 pose, that if I could be very entertaining, I 
 would be so, because, by giving me credit for 
 such a willingness to please, you only allow me 
 a share of that universal vanity, which inclines 
 every man, upon all occasions, to exhibit him-
 
 343 
 
 self to the best advantage. To say the truth 
 however, when I write, as I do to you, not about 
 business, nor on any subject that approaches to 
 that description, I mean much less my corres- 
 pondent's amusement, which my modesty will 
 not always permit me to hope for, than my own. 
 There is a pleasure, annexed to the communica- 
 tion of one's ideas, whether by word of mouth, 
 or by letter, which nothing earthly can supply 
 the place of, and it is the delight we find in this 
 mutual intercourse, that not only proves us to 
 be creatures intended for social life, but more 
 than any thing else, perhaps, fits us for it. I 
 have no patience with philosophers they, one 
 and all, suppose (at least I understand it to be 
 a prevailing opinion among them) that man's 
 weakness, his necessities, his inability to stand 
 alone, have furnished the prevailing motive, 
 under the influence of which he renounced at 
 first a life of solitude, and became a gregarious 
 creature. It seems to me more reasonable, as 
 well as more honorable to my species, to sup- 
 pose, that generosity of soul, and a brotherly at- 
 tachment to our own kind, drew us, as it were, 
 to one common centre, taught us to build cities, 
 and inhabit them, and welcome every stranger, 
 that would cast in his lot amongst us, that we 
 might enjoy fellowship with each other, and the 
 luxury of reciprocal endearment*, without which
 
 344 
 
 a. paradise could afford no comfort. There are 
 indeed all sorts of characters in the world : there 
 are some whose understandings are so sluggish, 
 and whose hearts are such mere clods, that they 
 live in society without either contributing to 
 the sweets of it, or having any relish for them. 
 A man of this stamp passes by our win- 
 dow continually I never saw him conversing 
 with a neighbour but once in my life, though I 
 have known him by sight these twelve years 
 he is of a very sturdy make, and has a round 
 belly, extremely protuberant, which he evi- 
 dently considers as his best friend, because it 
 is his only companion, and it is the labour of 
 his life to fill it. I can easily conceive, that it 
 is merely the love of good eating and drinking, 
 and now and then the want of a new pair of 
 shoes, that attaches this man so much to the 
 neighbourhood of his fellow mortals; for sup- 
 pose these exigencies, and others of a like kind, 
 to subsist no longer, and what is there that 
 could -give society the preference in his esteem? 
 He might strut about with his two thumbs upon 
 his hips in the wilderness, he could hardly be 
 more silent, than he is at Olney, and for any 
 advantage, or comfort, or friendship, or bro- 
 therly affection, he could not be more desti- 
 tute of such blessings there, than in his present 
 situation. But other men have something more
 
 345 
 
 than guts to satisfy ; there are the yearnings of 
 the heart, which, let philosophers say what they 
 will, are more importunate, than all the neces- 
 sities of the body, that will not suffer a creature, 
 worthy to be called human, to befcontent with 
 an insulated life, or to look for his friends among 
 the beasts of the forest. Yourself for instance! 
 It is not because there are no tailors, or pastry- 
 cooks, to be found upon Salisbury plain, that 
 you do not choose it for your abode, but be- 
 cause you are a philanthropist because you are 
 susceptible of social impressions, and have a 
 pleasure in doing a kindness when you can. 
 Now, upon the word of a poor creature, I have 
 said all that I have said, without the least in- 
 tention to say one word of it when I began. 
 But thus it is with my thoughts when you 
 shake a crab-tree, the fruit falls; good for no- 
 thing indeed when you have got it, but still 
 the best that is to be expected from a crab-tree. 
 You arc welcome to them, such as they are, and 
 if you approve my sentiments, tell the philoso-t 
 phers of the day, that I have outshot them all, 
 and have discovered the true origin of society, 
 when I least looked for it. '
 
 346 
 LETTER LXXXVIII. 
 
 TO THfi REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Jan. 5, 1/82. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 Did I allow myself to 
 plead the common excuse of idle correspond- 
 ents, and esteem it a sufficient reason for not 
 writing, that I have nothing to write about, I 
 certainly should not write now. But I have so 
 often found, on similar occasions, when a great 
 penury of matter has seemed to threaten me 
 with an utter impossibility of hatching a letter, 
 that nothing is necessary, but to put pen to 
 paper, and go on, in order to conquer all diffi- 
 culties ; that availing myself of past experience, 
 I now begin with a most assured persuasion, 
 that sooner or later, one idea naturally suggest- 
 ing another, I shall come to a most prosperous 
 conclusion. 
 
 In the last Review, 1 mean in the last but 
 one, I saw Johnson's critique upon Prior and 
 Pope. I am bound to acquiesce in his opinion 
 of the latter, because it has always been my 
 own. I could never agree with those who pre- 
 ferred him to Dryden ; nor with others (I have
 
 347 
 
 known such, and persons of taste and discern- 
 ment too) who could not allow him to be a poet 
 at all. He was certainly a mechanical maker 
 of verses, and in every line he ever wrote, we 
 see indubitable marks of most indefatigable 
 industry and labour. Writers, who find it ne- 
 cessary to make such strenuous and painful 
 exertions, are generally as phlegmatic, as they 
 are correct; but Pope was, in this respect, 
 exempted from the common lot of authors of 
 that class. With the unwearied application of 
 a plodding Flemish painter, who draws a shrimp 
 with the most minute exactness, he had all the 
 genius of one of the first masters. Never, I 
 believe, were such talents, and such drudgery 
 united. But I admire Dryden most, who has 
 succeeded by mere dint of genius, and in spite 
 of a laziness and carelessness, almost peculiar to 
 himself. His faults are numberless, and so are 
 his beauties. His faults are those of a great 
 man, and his beauties are such, (at least some- 
 times,) as Pope, with all his touching, and 
 retouching, could never equal. So far, there- 
 fore, I have no quarrel with Johnson. But I 
 cannot subscribe to what he says of Prior. In 
 the first place, though my memory may fail 
 me, I do not recollect that he takes any notice 
 of his Solomon, in my mind the best poem, 
 whether we consider the subject of it, or the
 
 348 
 
 execution, that he ever wrote. In the next 
 place, he condemns him for introducing Venus 
 and Cupid into his love- verses, and concludes 
 it impossible his passion could be sincere, be-r 
 cause when he would express it, he has recourse 
 to fables. But when Prior wrote, those deities 
 were not so obsolete, as they are at present. 
 His contemporary writers, and some that suc- 
 ceeded him, did not think them beneath their 
 notice. Tibullus, in reality, disbelieved their 
 existence, as much as we do ; yet Tibullus is al- 
 lowed to be the prince of all poetical inamoratos, 
 though he mentions them in almost every page. 
 There is a fashion in these things, which the 
 Doctor seems to have forgotten, But what 
 shall we say of his fusty-rusty remarks upon 
 Henry and Emma? I agree with him, that 
 morally considered, both the knight and his 
 lady are bad characters, and that each exhibits 
 an example which ought not to be followed. 
 The man dissembles in a way, that would have 
 justified the woman had she renounced him; 
 and the woman resolves to follow him at the 
 expense of delicacy, propriety, and even mo- 
 desty itself. But when the critic calls it a dull 
 dialogue, who but a critic will believe him? 
 There are few readers of poetry of either sex, 
 in this country, who cannot remember how 
 that enchanting piece has bewitched them, who.
 
 349 
 
 do not know, that instead of finding it tedious, 
 they have been so delighted with the romantic 
 turn of it, as to have overlooked all its defects, 
 and to have given it a consecrated place in 
 their memories, without ever feeling it a bur- 
 then. I wonder almost, that as the Bacchanals 
 served Orpheus, the boys and girls do not tear 
 this husky, dry, commentator, limb from limb, 
 in resentment of such an injury done to their 
 darling poet. I admire Johnson as a man of 
 great erudition and sense, but when he sets 
 himself up for a judge of writers upon the sub- 
 ject of love, a passion which I suppose he 
 never felt in his life, he might as well think 
 himself qualified to pronounce upon a treatise 
 on horsemanship, or the art of fortification. 
 
 The next packet I receive, will bring me i I 
 imagine, the last proof sheet of my volume, 
 which will consist of about three hundred and 
 fifty pages, honestly printed. My public entrte 
 therefore is not far distant. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 w. c.
 
 350 
 LETTER LXXXIX. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Jan. \7, 17S2, 
 MY DEAR WILLIAM, 
 
 I am glad we agree in 
 our opinion of king critic, and the writers on 
 whom he has bestowed his animadversions. It 
 is a matter of indifference to me whether I 
 think with the world at large or not, but I wish 
 my friends to be of my mind. The same work 
 will wear a different appearance in the eyes of 
 the same man, according to the different views 
 with which he reads it; if merely for his 
 amusement, his candour being in less danger of 
 a twist from interest or prejudice, he is pleased 
 with what is really pleasing, and is not over 
 curious to discover a blemish, because the exer- 
 cise of a minute exactness is not consistent 
 with his purpose. But if he once becomes a 
 critic by trade, the case is altered. He must 
 then at any rate establish, if he can, an opinion 
 in every mind, of his uncommon discernment, 
 and his exquisite taste. This great end he can 
 never accomplish by thinking in the track, that 
 has been beaten under the hoof of public judg-
 
 351 
 
 mcnt. He must endeavour to convince the 
 world, that their favorite authors have more 
 faults than they are aware of, and such as they 
 have never suspected. Having marked out a 
 writer universally esteemed, whom he finds it 
 for that very reason convenient to depreciate 
 and traduce, he will overlook some of his beau- 
 ties, he will faintly praise others, and in such a 
 manner as to make thousands, more modest, 
 though quite as judicious as himself, question 
 whether they are beauties at all. Can there be 
 a stronger illustration of all that I have said, 
 than the severity of Johnson's remarks upon 
 Prior, I might have said the injustice? His 
 reputation as an author, who, with much labour 
 indeed, but with admirable success, has embel- 
 lished all his poems with the most charming 
 ease, stood unshaken till Johnson thrust his 
 head against it. And how does he attack him 
 in this his principal fort? I cannot recollect 
 his very words, but I am much mistaken in- 
 deed, if my memory fails me with respect to 
 the purport of them. " His words," he says, 
 " appear to be forced into their proper places: 
 " There indeed we find them, but find likewise, 
 " that their arrangement has been the effect of 
 " constraint, and that without violence, they 
 " would certainly have stood in a different 
 " order." By your leave most learned Doctor,
 
 So H 
 
 this is the most disingenuous remark I ever 
 met with, and would have come with a better 
 grace from Curl, or Dennis. Every man con- 
 versant with verse-writing knows, and knows 
 by painful experience, that the familiar style 
 is or all styles the most difficult to succeed in. 
 To make verse speak the language of prose, 
 without being prosaic, to marshal the words ot 
 it in such an order, as they might naturally 
 take in falling from the lips of an extemporary 
 speaker, yet without meanness; harmoniously, 
 elegantly, and without seeming to displace a 
 syllable for the sake of the rhyme, is one of the 
 most arduous tasks a poet can undertake. He 
 that could accomplish this task was Prior; 
 many have imitated his excellence in this par- 
 ticular, but the best copies have fallen far short 
 of the original. And now to tell us, after we 
 and our fathers have admired him for it so long, 
 that he is an easy writer indeed, but that his 
 ease has an air of stiffness in it, in short, that 
 his ease is not ease, but only something like it, 
 what is it but a self contradiction, an observa- 
 tion that grants what it is just going to deny, 
 and denies what it has just granted, in the same 
 sentence, and in the same breath? But I have 
 filled the greatest part of my sheet with a very 
 uninteresting subject. I will only say, that as 
 a nation we are not much indebted, in point of
 
 353 
 
 poetical credit, to this too sagacious and un- 
 merciful judge; and that for myself in parti- 
 cular, I have reason to rejoice that he entered 
 upon and exhausted the labours of his office, 
 before my poor volume could possibly become 
 an object of them. By the way, you cannot 
 have a book at the time you mention, I have 
 lived a fortnight or more in expectation of the 
 last sheet, which is not yet arrived. 
 
 You have already furnished John's memory 
 with by far the greatest part of what a parent 
 would wish to store it with. If all that is 
 merely trivial, and all that has an immoral ten- 
 dency were expunged from our English poets, 
 how would they shrink, and how would some 
 of them completely vanish. I believe' there 
 are some of Dryden's Fables, which he would 
 find very entertaining; they are for the most 
 part fine compositions, and not above his appre- 
 hension; but Dry den has written few things, 
 that are not blotted here and there with an 
 unchaste allusion, so that you must pick his 
 way for him, lest he should tread in the dirt. 
 You did not mention Milton's Allegro and Pen- 
 seroso, which I remember being so charmed 
 with when I was a boy, that I was never weary 
 of them. There are even passages in the para- 
 disiacal part of the Paradise Lost, which he 
 might study with advantage. And to teach 
 vol. i. 2 a
 
 354 
 
 him, as you can, to deliver some of the fine 
 orations made in the Pandasmonium, and those 
 between Satan, Ithuriel, and Zephon, with em- 
 phasis, dignity, and propriety, might be of 
 great use to him hereafter. The sooner the ear 
 is formed, and the organs of speech are accus- 
 tomed to the various inflections of the voice, 
 which the rehearsal of those passages demands, 
 the better. I should think too, that Thomson's 
 Seasons might afford him some useful lessons. 
 At least they would have a tendency to give 
 his mind an observing, and a philosophical turn. 
 I do not forget that he is but a child. But I 
 remember, that he is a child favored with ta- 
 lents superior to his years. We were much 
 pleased with his remarks on your almsgiving, 
 and doubt not but it will be verified with re- 
 spect to the two guineas you sent us, which 
 have made four Christian people happy. Ships 
 I have none, nor have touched a pencil these 
 three years : if ever I take it up again, which I 
 rather suspect I shall not, (the employment re- 
 quiring stronger eyes than mine) it shall be at 
 John's service. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, 
 
 W. C.
 
 3&* 
 LETTER XC. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Feb. 2, 1782. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 Though I value your cor- 
 respondence highly on its own account, I 
 certainly value it the more in consideration of 
 the many difficulties under which you carry it 
 on. Having so many other engagements, and 
 engagements so much more worthy your atten- 
 tion, I ought to esteem it, as I do, a singular 
 proof of your friendship, that you so often 
 make an opportunity to bestow a letter upon 
 me : And this, not only because mine, which I 
 write in a state of mind not very favorable to 
 religious contemplations, are never worth your 
 reading, but especially because while you con- 
 sult my gratification and endeavour to amuse 
 my melancholy, your thoughts are forced out 
 of the only channel in which they delight to 
 flow, and constrained into another so different 
 and so little interesting to a mind like yours, 
 that but for me, and for my sake, they would 
 perhaps never visit it. Though I should be 
 glad therefore to hear from you every week, 
 
 2 a 2
 
 356 
 
 I do not complain that I enjoy that privilege 
 but once in a fortnight, but am rather happy 
 to be indulged in it so often. 
 
 I thank you for the jog you gave Johnson's 
 elbow; communicated from him to the printer, 
 it has produced me two more sheets, and two 
 more will bring the business, I suppose, to a 
 conclusion., I sometimes feel such a perfect 
 indifference, with respect to the public opinion 
 of my book, that I am ready to flatter myself 
 no censure of reviewers, or other critical read- 
 ers, would occasion me the smallest disturbance. 
 But not feeling myself constantly possessed of 
 this desirable apathy, I am sometimes apt to 
 suspect, that it is not altogether sincere, or at 
 least that I may lose it just in the moment, 
 when I may happen most to want it. Be it 
 however, as it may, I am still persuaded, that it 
 is not in their power to mortify me much. I 
 have intended well, and performed to the best 
 of my ability so far was right, and this is a 
 boast of which they cannot rob me. If they 
 condemn my poetry, I must even say with 
 Cervantes, " Let them do better if they can !" 
 if my doctrine, they judge that, which they do 
 not understand; I shall except to the jurisdic- 
 tion of the court, and plead, Coram nonjudice. 
 Even Horace could say, he should neither be 
 the plumper for the praise, nor the leaner for
 
 357 
 
 the condemnation of his reader; and it will 
 prove me wanting to myself indeed, if, sup- 
 ported by so many sublimer considerations than 
 he was master of, I cannot sit loose to popu- 
 larity, which, like the wind, bloweth where it 
 listeth, and is equally out of our command. If 
 you, and two or three more, such as you, say, 
 well done; it ought to give me more content- 
 ment, than if I could earn Churchill's laurels, 
 and by the same means. 
 
 I wrote to Lord Dartmouth to apprise him 
 of my intended present, and have received a 
 most affectionate and obliging answer. 
 
 I am rather pleased that you have adopted 
 other sentiments respecting our intended pre- 
 sent to the critical Doctor. I allow him to be 
 a man of gigantic talents, and most profound 
 learning, nor have I any doubts about the uni- 
 versality of his knowledge. But by what I 
 have seen of his animadversions on the poets, I 
 feel myself much disposed to question, in many 
 instances, either his candour or his taste. He 
 finds fault too often, like a man that having 
 sought it very industriously, is at last obliged to 
 stick it on a pin's point, and look at it through 
 a microscope; and I am sure I could easily con- 
 vict him of having denied many beauties, and 
 overlooked more. Whether his judgment be in 
 itself defective, or whether it be warped by col-
 
 358 
 
 lateral considerations, a writer upon such sub- 
 jects as I have chosen would probably find but 
 little mercy at his hands. 
 
 No winter since we knew Olney has kept us 
 more confined than the present. We have noc 
 more than three times escaped into the fields, 
 since last autumn. Man, a changeable creature, 
 in himself, seems to subsist best in a state of va- 
 riety, as his proper element a melancholy man 
 at least is apt to grow sadly weary of the same 
 walks, and the same pales, and to find that the 
 same scene will suggest the same thoughts per- 
 petually. 
 
 Though I have spoken of the utility of 
 changes, we neither feel nor wish for any in 
 our friendships, and consequently stand just 
 where we did with respect to your whole self. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, 
 
 W.C.
 
 359 
 LETTER XCI. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Feb. 16, 1782. 
 
 Caraccioli says " There is 
 " something very bewitching in authorship, and 
 " that he who has once written, will write again." 
 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 purpose 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 sec 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 sup- 
 pose my case in this respect a little peculiar.
 
 360 
 
 The voluminous writers at least, whose vein of 
 fancy seems always to have been rich in pro- 
 portion to their occasions, cannot have been so 
 unlike, 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 Al- 
 mighty 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 last, that my power to think, 
 whatever it be, and consequently my power to 
 compose, is, as much as my outward form, af- 
 forded to me by the same hand that makes me, 
 in any respect, to differ from a brute. This les- 
 son, if not constantly inculcated, might perhaps 
 be forgotten, or at least too slightly remem- 
 bered. 
 
 W. C, 
 
 ^^ 
 
 The following cursory remarks of Cowper 
 appear highly worthy of preservation. They 
 were written on separate scraps of paper, with- 
 out any title, and may find perhaps their most 
 suitable place as a sequel to the letter in which 
 he quoted the writer whose character he has 
 here sketched at full length, and with a mas- 
 terly hand.
 
 361 
 
 " Caraccioli appears to me to have been a 
 wise man, and I believe he was a good man in a 
 religious sense. But his wisdom and his good- 
 ness both savour more of the Philosopher than 
 the Christian. In the latter of these characters 
 he seems defective principally in this that in- 
 stead of sending his reader to God as an inex- 
 haustible source of happiness to his intelligent 
 creatures, and exhorting him to cultivate com- 
 munion with his Maker, he directs him to his own 
 heart, and to the contemplations of his own facul- 
 ties and powers, as a neverfailing spring of com- 
 fort and content. He speaks even of the natural 
 man as made in the image of God, and supposes 
 a resemblance of God to consist in a sort of in- 
 dependent self-sufficing and self-complacent fe- 
 licity, which can hardly be enjoyed without the 
 forfeiture of all humility, and a flat denial of 
 some of the most important truths in Scripture. 
 
 " As a Philosopher he refines to an excess, 
 and his arguments instead of convincing others, 
 if pushed as far as they would go, would convict 
 him of absurdity himself When for instance 
 he would depreciate earthly riches by telling us, 
 that gold and diamonds are only matter modi- 
 fied in a particular way, and thence concludes 
 them not more valuable in themselves than the 
 dust under our feet, his consequence is false, 
 and his cause is hurt by the assertion. It is
 
 362 
 
 that very modification, that gives them both a 
 beauty and a value a value and a beauty re- 
 cognized in Scripture, and by the universal con- 
 sent of all well informed and civilized nations. 
 It is in vain to tell mankind, that gold and dirt 
 are equal, so long as their experience convinces 
 them of the contrary. It is necessary therefore 
 to distinguish between the thing itself and the 
 abuse of it. Wealth is in fact a blessing, when 
 honestly acquired, and conscientiously employ- 
 ed : and when otherwise, the man is to be 
 blamed, and not his treasure. How does the 
 Scripture combat the vice of covetousness? not 
 by asserting, that gold is only earth exhibiting 
 itself to us under a particular modification, and 
 therefore not worth seeking: but by telling us, 
 that covetousness is idolatry, that the love of 
 money is the root of all evil, that it has occa- 
 sioned in some even the shipwreck of their 
 faith, and is always, in whomsoever it obtains, 
 an abomination. 
 
 " A man might have said to Caraccioli, give 
 me your purse full of ducats, and I will give 
 you my old wig; they are both composed of 
 the same matter under different modifications. 
 What could the Philosopher have replied? he 
 must have made the exchange, or have denied 
 his own principles. 
 
 " Again, when speaking of sumptuous edi-
 
 363 
 
 fices, he calls a palace an assemblage of sticks 
 and stones, which a puff of wind may demolish, 
 or a spark of fire consume; and thinks he has 
 reduced a magnificent building and a cottage to 
 the same level, when he has told us, that the 
 latter viewed through an optic glass may be 
 made to appear as large as the former, and that 
 the former seen through the same glass inverted 
 may be reduced to the pitiful dimensions of the 
 latter; has he indeed carried his point? is he 
 not rather imposing on the judgment of his 
 readers, just as the glass would impose upon 
 their senses? How is it possible to deduce a sub- 
 stantial argument in this case, from an acknow- 
 ledged deception of the sight? The objects con- 
 tinue what they were, the palace is still a pa- 
 lace, and the cottage is not at all ennobled in 
 reality, though we contemplate them ever so 
 long through an illusive medium. There is in 
 fact a real difference between them, and such 
 a one as the Scripture itself takes very empha- 
 tical notice of, assuring us that in the last day, 
 much shall be required of him, to whom much 
 was given; that every man shall be then consi- 
 dered as a steward, and render a strict account 
 of the things, with which he was intrusted. 
 This consideration indeed may make the dwell- 
 ers in palaces tremble, who, living for the most 
 part in the continued abuse of their talents,
 
 364 
 
 squandering and wasting and spending upon 
 themselves their Master's treasure, will have 
 reason enough to envy the cottager, whose ac- 
 counts will be more easily settled. But to tell 
 mankind, that a palace and a hovel are the same 
 thing, is to affront their senses, to contradict 
 their knowledge, and to disgust their under- 
 standings. 
 
 " Herein seems to consist one of the princi- 
 pal differences between Philosophy and Scrip- 
 ture, or the Wisdom of Man, and the Wisdom 
 of God. The former endeavours indeed to con- 
 vince the judgment, but it frequently is obliged 
 to have recourse to unlawful means, such as 
 misrepresentation, and the play of fancy. The 
 latter addresses itself to the judgment like- 
 wise, but it carries its point by awakening the 
 conscience; by enlightening the understand- 
 ing, and by appealing to our own experience. 
 As Philosophy therefore cannot make a Chris- 
 tian, so a Christian ought to take care that he 
 be not too much a Philosopher. It is mere folly 
 instead of wisdom, to forego those arguments, 
 and to shut our eyes upon those motives, which 
 Truth itself has pointed out to us, and which 
 alone are adequate to the purpose; and to busy 
 ourselves in making vain experiments on the 
 strength of others of our own invention. In 
 fact the world, which, however it has dared to
 
 .365 
 
 controvert the authenticity of Scripture, has 
 never been able to impeach the wisdom of its 
 precepts or the reasonableness of its exhorta- 
 tions, has sagacity enough to see through the 
 fallacy of such reasonings, and will rather laugh 
 at the sage, who declares war against matter of 
 fact, than become proselytes to his opinion." 
 
 LETTER XCII. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN WIN. 
 
 Feb. 24, 1/82. 
 
 My dear friend, if I should re- 
 ceive a letter from you to morrow, you must 
 still remember, that I am not in your debt, hav- 
 ing paid you by anticipation. Knowing that 
 you take an interest in my publication, and that 
 you have waited for it with some impatience, I 
 write to inform you, that, if it is possible for a 
 printer to be punctual, I shall come forth on the 
 first of March. I have ordered two copies to 
 Stock; one for Mr. John Unwin. It is possible 
 after all, that my book may come forth without 
 a preface. Mr. Newton has written (he could
 
 36'6* 
 
 indeed write no other) a very sensible, as well 
 as a very friendly one; and it is printed. But 
 the bookseller, who knows him well, and esteems 
 him highly, is anxious to have it cancelled, and, 
 with my consent first obtained, has offered to 
 negrociate that matter with the author. He 
 judges, that, though it would serve to recom- 
 mend the volume to the religious, it would dis- 
 gust the profane, and that there is in reality no 
 need of a preface at all. I have found Johnson a 
 very judicious, man on other occasions, and am 
 therefore willing, that he should determine for 
 me upon this. 
 
 There are but few persons, to whom I pre- 
 sent my book. The Lord Chancellor is one. I 
 enclose in a packet I send by this post to John- 
 son a letter to his Lordship, which will accom- 
 pany the volume; and to you I enclose a copy 
 of it, because I know you will have a friendly 
 curiosity to see it. An author is an important 
 character. Whatever his merits may be, the 
 mere circumstance of authorship warrants his 
 approach to persons, whom otherwise perhaps 
 he could hardly address without being deemed 
 impertinent. He can do me no good. If I 
 should happen to do him a little, I shall be a 
 greater man than he. I have ordered a copy 
 likewise to Mr. S. 
 
 I hope John continues to be pleased, and to
 
 367 
 
 give pleasure. If he loves instruction, he has a 
 tutor who can give him plentifully of what he 
 loves; and with his natural abilities, his pro- 
 gress must be such as you would wish. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER XCIII. 
 
 TO LORD THURLOW. 
 
 (ENCLOSED TO MR. UNW1N.) 
 
 Olney, Bucks, Feb. 25, 1/82. 
 MY LORD, 
 
 I make no apology for what I ac- 
 count a duty ! I should offend against the cor- 
 diality of our former friendship, should I send 
 a volume into the world, and forget how much 
 I am bound to pay my particular respects to 
 your Lordship upon tint occasion: When we 
 parted, you little thought of hearing from me 
 again; and I as little, that I should live to write 
 to you, still less, that I should wait on you in 
 the capacity of an author. 
 
 Among the pieces I have the honour to send, 
 there is one, for which I must intreat your par- 
 don. I mean that, of which your Lordship is
 
 36$ 
 
 the subject. The best excuse I can make is, 
 that it flowed almost spontaneously from the 
 affectionate remembrance of a connexion, that 
 did me so much honor. 
 
 As to the rest, their merits, if they have any, 
 and their defects, which are probably more than 
 I am aware of, will neither of them escape your 
 notice. But where there is much discernment, 
 there is generally much candour; and I commit 
 myself into your Lordship's hands with the less 
 anxiety, being well acquainted with yours. 
 
 If my first visit, after so long an interval, 
 should prove neither a troublesome, nor a dull 
 one, but especially, if not altogether an unpro- 
 fitable one, ornne tuli punctum. 
 
 I have the honor to be, though with very 
 different impressions of some subjects, yet with 
 the same sentiments of affection and esteem as 
 ever, your Lordship's faithful, and most obe- 
 dient, humble servant, 
 
 W. C.
 
 369 
 LETTER XCIV. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 February, 1/62. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I enclose Johnson's letter 
 upon the subject of the Preface, and would 
 send you my reply to it, if I had kept a copy. 
 This however was the purport of it. That 
 
 Mr. , whom I described, as you described 
 
 him to me, had made a similar objection, but 
 that being willing to hope, that two or three 
 pages of sensible matter, well expressed, might 
 possibly go down, though of a religious cast, I 
 was resolved to believe him mistaken, and to 
 pay no regard to it. That his judgment how- 
 ever, who by his occupation is bound to under- 
 stand what will promote the sale of a book, 
 and what will hinder it, seemed to deserve 
 more attention. That therefore, according to 
 his own offer, written on a small slip of paper 
 now lost, I should be obliged to him if he 
 would state his difficulties to you; adding, I 
 need not inform him, who is so well acquainted 
 with you, that he would find you easy to be 
 persuaded to sacrifice, if necessary, what you 
 
 VOL. I. 2 B
 
 370 
 
 had written, to the interests of the book. I 
 find he has had an interview with yon upon the 
 occasion, and your behaviour in it has verified 
 my prediction. What course he determines 
 upon, I do not know, nor am I at all anxious 
 about it. It is impossible for me however, to 
 be so insensible of your kindness in writing the 
 Preface, as not to be desirous of defying all 
 contingencies, rather than entertain a wish to 
 suppress it. It will do me honor in the eyes 
 of those, whose good opinion is indeed an ho- 
 nor, and if it hurts me in the estimation of 
 others, I cannot help it; the fault is neither 
 yours, nor mine, but theirs. If a minister's is 
 a more splendid character than a poet's, and I 
 think nobody that understands their value can 
 hesitate in deciding that question, then un- 
 doubtedly the advantage of having our names 
 united in the same volume is all on my side. 
 We thank you for the Fast-sermon. I had 
 
 not read two pages before I exclaimed the 
 
 man has read Expostulation. But though there 
 is a strong resemblance between the two pieces 
 in point of matter, and sometimes the very 
 same expressions are to be met with, yet I soon 
 recollected, that, on such a theme, a striking 
 coincidence of both might happen without a 
 wonder. I doubt not that it is the production 
 of an honest man, it carries with it an air of
 
 371 
 
 sincerity and zeal, that is not easily counter- 
 feited. But though I can see no reason, why 
 kings should not sometimes hear of their faults, 
 as well as other men, I think I see many good 
 ones why they should not be reproved so pub- 
 licly. It can hardly be done with that respect, 
 which is due to their office, on the part of the 
 author, or without encouraging a spirit of un- 
 mannerly censure in his readers. His majesty too 
 perhaps might answer my own personal feelings 
 and offences I am ready to confess ; but were I to 
 follow your advice, and cashier the profligate 
 from my service, where must I seek men of 
 faith, and true Christian piety, qualified by na- 
 ture and by education, to succeed them? 
 Business must be done, men of business alone 
 can do it, and good men are rarely found under 
 that description. When Nathan reproved Da- 
 vid, he did not employ a herald, or accompany 
 his charge with the sound of the trumpet; nor 
 can I think the writer of this sermon quite 
 justifiable in exposing the king's faults in the 
 sight of the people. 
 
 Your answer respecting iEtna is quite satis- 
 factory, and gives me much pleasure. I hate 
 altering, though I never refuse the task when 
 propriety seems to enjoin it; and an alteration 
 in this instance, if I am not mistaken, would 
 have been singularly difficult. Indeed, when 
 2 u 2
 
 372 
 
 a piece has been finished two or three years, 
 and an author finds occasion to amend, or make 
 an addition to it, it is not easy to fall upon the 
 very vein, from which he drew his ideas in the 
 first instance, but either a different turn of 
 thought, or expression, will betray the patch, 
 and convince a reader of discernment, that it 
 has been cobbled and varnished. 
 
 Our love to you both, and to the young Eu- 
 phrosyne ! the old lady of that name being long 
 since dead, if she pleases she shall fill her va- 
 .cant office, and be my muse hereafter. 
 
 Yours, my dear sir, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 LETTER XCV. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 March 6, 1782. 
 
 Is peace the nearer because our 
 patriots have resolved that it is desirable? Will 
 the victory they have gained in the House of 
 Commons be attended with any other? Do 
 they expect the same success on other occa- 
 sions, and having once gained a majority, are
 
 373 
 
 they to be the majority for ever? These are 
 
 the questions we agitate by the fireside in an 
 evening, without being able to come to any 
 certain conclusion, partly I suppose, because the 
 subject is in itself uncertain, and partly because 
 we are not furnished with the means of under- 
 standing it. I find the politics of times past 
 far more intelligible than those of the present. 
 Time has thrown light upon what was obscure, 
 and decided what was ambiguous. The charac- 
 ters of great men, which are always mysterious 
 while they live, are ascertained by the faithful 
 historian, and sooner or later receive the wages 
 of fame or infamy, according to their true de- 
 serts. How have I seen sensible and learned . 
 men burn incense to the memory of Oliver 
 Cromwell, ascribing to him, as the greatest hero 
 in the world, the dignity of the British empire 
 during the interregnum. A century passed be- 
 fore that idol, which seemed to be of gold, was 
 proved to be a wooden one. The fallacy how- 
 ever was at length detected, and the honor of 
 that detection has fallen to the share of a wo- 
 man. I do not know whether you have read 
 Airs. Macauleys history of that period. She 
 has handled him more roughly than the Scots 
 did at the battle of Dunbar. He would have 
 thought it little worth his while to have broken 
 through all obligations divine and human, to .
 
 374 
 
 have wept crocodile's tears, and wrapped him- 
 self up in the obscurity of speeches that nobody- 
 could understand, could he have foreseen, that 
 in the ensuing century a lady's scissars would 
 clip his laurels close, and expose his naked vil- 
 lany to the scorn of all posterity. This how- 
 ever has been accomplished, and so effectually, 
 that I suppose it is not in the power of the 
 most artificial management to make them grow 
 again. Even the sagacious of mankind are 
 blind, when Providence leaves them to be de- 
 luded; so blind, that a tyrant shall be mistaken 
 for a true patriot, true patriots (such were the 
 Long Parliament) shall be abhorred as tyrants, 
 and almost a whole nation shall dream, that 
 they have the full enjoyment of liberty, for 
 years after such a complete knave as Oliver 
 shall have stolen it completely from them. I 
 am indebted for all this show of historical 
 knowledge to Mr. Bull, who has lent me five 
 volumes of the work I mention. I was willing: 
 to display it while I have it; in a twelvemonth's 
 time I shall remember almost nothing of the 
 matter. 
 
 W.C.
 
 S75 
 LETTER XCVI. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 March 7, 1782. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 We have great pleasure in 
 the contemplation of your Northern journey, 
 as it promises us a sight of you and yours by 
 the way, and are only sorry Miss Shuttleworth 
 cannot be of the party. A line to ascertain the 
 hour when we may expect you, by the next 
 preceding post, will be welcome. 
 
 It is not much for my advantage, that the 
 printer delays so long to gratify your expecta- 
 tion. It is a state of mind, that is apt to tire 
 and disconcert us; and there are but few plea- 
 sures, that make us amends for the pain of 
 repeated disappointment. I take it for granted 
 you have not received the volume, not having 
 received it myself, nor indeed heard from John- 
 son, since he fixed the first of the month for 
 its publication. 
 
 What a medley are our public prints, half 
 the page filled with the ruin of the country, 
 and the other half filled with the vices and 
 pleasures of it here is an island taken, aud
 
 376 
 
 there a new comedy here an empire lost, and 
 there an Italian opera, or a Lord's rout on a 
 Sunday ! 
 
 " May it please your Lordship! I am an 
 11 Englishman, and must stand or fall with the 
 " nation. Religion, its true Palladium, has 
 " been stolen away; and it is crumbling into 
 " dust. Sin ruins us, the sins of the great 
 " especially, and of their sins especially the 
 " violation of the sabbath, because it is natu- 
 " rally productive of all the rest. If you wish 
 " well to our arms, and would be glad to see 
 " the kingdom emerging from her ruins, pay 
 " more respect to an ordinance, that deserves 
 " the deepest! I do not say pardon this short 
 
 " remonstrance! The concern I feel for my 
 
 " country, and the interest I have in its pros- 
 " perity, give me a right to make it. I am, &c." 
 
 Thus one might write to his Lordship, and 
 (I suppose) might be as profitably employed in 
 whistling the tune of an old ballad. 
 
 I have no copy of the Preface, nor do I 
 know at present how Johnson and Mr. Newton 
 have settled it. In the matter of it there was 
 nothing offensively peculiar. But it was thought 
 too pious. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, 
 
 W. C.
 
 377 
 
 LETTER XCVII. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 March 14, 1782, 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I can only repeat what I 
 said some time since, that the world is grown 
 more foolish and careless than it was, when I 
 had the honor of knowing it. Though your 
 Preface was of a serious cast, it was yet free 
 from every thing that might, with propriety, 
 expose it to the charge of Methodism; being 
 guilty of no offensive peculiarities, nor contain- 
 ing any of those obnoxious doctrines, at which 
 the world is so apt to be angry, and which we 
 must give her leave to be angry at, because we 
 know she cannot help it. It asserted nothing 
 more than every rational creature must admit to 
 be true " that divine and earthly things can 
 " no longer stand in competition with each 
 " other, in the judgment of any man, than while 
 " he continues ignorant of their respective va- 
 " lue, and that the moment the eyes are opened, 
 11 the latter are always cheerfully relinquished 
 " for the sake of the former." Now I do most-
 
 378 
 i 
 
 certainly remember the time when such a pro- 
 position as this would have been at least sup- 
 portable, and when it would not have spoiled 
 the market of any volume, to which it had 
 been prefixed, ergo the times are altered for 
 the worse. 
 
 I have reason to be very much satisfied with 
 my publisher he marked such lines as did not 
 please him, and as often as I could, I paid all 
 possible respect to his animadversions. You 
 will accordingly find, at least if you recollect 
 how they stood in the MS., that several passages 
 are better for having undergone his critical no- 
 tice. Indeed I do not know where I could have 
 found a bookseller, who could have pointed out 
 to me my defects with more discernment; and 
 as I find it is a fashion for modern bards, to pub- 
 lish the names of the literati, who have favored 
 their works with a revisal, would myself most 
 willingly have acknowledged my obligations to 
 Johnson, and so I told him. I am to thank you 
 likewise, and ought to have done it in the first 
 place, for having recommended to me the sup- 
 pression of some lines, which I am more than 
 ever convinced would at least have done me no 
 honor.
 
 379 
 
 The immediate success of his first volume 
 was very far from being equal to its extraor- 
 dinary merit. For some time, it seemed to be 
 neglected by the public; though the first poem 
 in the collection contains such a powerful image 
 of its author, as might be thought sufficient not 
 only to excite attention, but to secure attach- 
 ment: for Cowper had undesignedly executed 
 a masterly portrait of himself, in describing the 
 true poet: I allude to the following verses in 
 " Table Talk." 
 
 Nature, exerting an unwearied pow'r, 
 
 Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flow'r ; 
 
 Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads 
 
 The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads : 
 
 She fills, profuse, ten thousand little throats 
 
 With music, modulating all their notes : 
 
 And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds unknown, 
 
 With artless airs, and concerts of her own ; 
 
 But seldom (as if fearful of expense) 
 
 Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence 
 
 Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought, 
 
 Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought; 
 
 Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky 
 
 Brings colours, dipp'd in Heaven, that never die; 
 
 A soul exalted above Earth, a mind 
 
 Skill'd in the characters, that form mankind ; 
 
 And, as the sun, in rising beauty drest, 
 
 Looks from the dappled orient to the west, 
 
 And marks, whatever clouds may interpose, 
 
 Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close,
 
 380 
 
 An eye like his, to catch the distant goal, 
 Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll, 
 Like his to shed illuminating rays 
 On every scene and subject, it surveys : 
 Thus grac'd, the man asserts a poet's name, 
 And the world cheerfully admits the claim. 
 
 The concluding lines may be considered as 
 an omen of that celebrity, which such a writer, 
 in the process of time, could not fail to obtain. 
 Yet powerful as the claims of Cowper were to 
 instant admiration and applause, it must be al- 
 lowed (as an apology for the inattention of the 
 public) that he hazarded some sentiments in his 
 first volume, which M^ere very likely to obstruct 
 its immediate success in the world. I particu- 
 larly allude to his bold eulogy on Whitefield, 
 whom the dramatic satire of Foote, in his co- 
 medy of " The Minor" had induced the nation 
 to deride as a mischievous fanatic. 1 allude also 
 to a little acrimonious censure, in which he had 
 indulged himself against one of Whitefield's de- 
 vout rivals, Mr. Charles Wesley, for allowing sa- 
 cred music to form a part of his occupation in a 
 Sunday evening. Such praise, and such reproof, 
 might easily induce many careless readers, un- 
 acquainted with the singular mildness, and pu- 
 rity of character, that really belonged to the 
 new poet, to reject his book, without giving it 
 a fair perusal, as the production of a recluse, in-
 
 381 
 
 flamed with the fierce spirit of bigotry. No 
 supposition could have been wider from the 
 truth ; for Cowper was indeed a rare example of 
 true Christian benevolence : yet, as the best of 
 men have their little occasional foibles, he al- 
 lowed himself, sometimes with his pen, but ne- 
 ver I believe in conversation, to speak rather 
 acrimoniously of several pursuits and pastimes, 
 that seem not to deserve any austerity of re- 
 proof. Of this, he was aware himself, and con- 
 fessed it, in the most ingenuous manner, on the 
 following occasion. One of his intimate friends 
 had written, in the first volume of his poems, 
 the following passage from the younger Pliny, 
 as descriptive of the book: " Mult a tenuiter, 
 multa sublimit er, multa venuste, multa tenere, 
 mult a dulcitur, multa cum bile" Many pas- 
 sages are delicate, many sublime, many beauti- 
 ful, many tender, many sweet, many acrimo- 
 nious. 
 
 Cowper was pleased with the application, 
 and said, with the utmost candour and sincerity, 
 " The latter part is very true indeed : Yes ! yes ! 
 " there are viulta cum bile, many acrimonious." 
 
 These little occasional touches of austerity 
 would naturally arise in a life so sequestered: 
 but how just a subject of surprise and admira- 
 tion is it, to behold an author starting, under 
 such a load of disadvantages, and displaying, on
 
 382 
 
 the sudden, such a variety of excellence ! For, 
 neglected as it was for a few years, the first vo- 
 lume of Cowper exhibits such a diversity of 
 poetical powers, as have been given very rarely 
 indeed to any individual of the modern, or of 
 the ancient world. He is not only great in pas- 
 sages of pathos and sublimity, but he is equally 
 admirable in wit and humour. After descant- 
 ing, most copiously, on sacred subjects, with the 
 animation of a prophet, and the simplicity of 
 an apostle, he paints the ludicrous characters of 
 common life with the comic force of Moliere; 
 particularly in his poem on Conversation, and 
 his exquisite portrait of a fretful temper; a piece 
 of moral painting so highly finished, and so hap- 
 pily calculated to promote good humour, that a 
 transcript of the verses shall close the first part 
 of these memoirs. 
 
 Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, 
 You always do too little, or too much : 
 You speak with life, in hopes to entertain; 
 Your elevated voice goes through the brain : 
 You fall at once into a lower key ; 
 That's worse; the drone-pipe of an humble-bee! 
 The southern sash admits too strong a light ; 
 You rise and drop the curtain : now 'tis night. 
 He shakes with cold ; you stir the fire, and strive 
 To make a blaze : that's roasting him alive. 
 Serve him with ven'son, and he chooses fish ; 
 With soal, that's just the sort he would not wish.
 
 383 
 
 He takes what he at first profess'd to loath ; 
 And in due time feeds heartily on both : 
 Yet, still o'erclouded with a constant frown, 
 He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 
 Your hope to please him vain on ev'ry plan, 
 Himself should work that wonder if he can. 
 Alas! his efforts double his distress j 
 He likes yours little, and his own still less. 
 Thus always teazing others, always teaz'd 
 His only pleasure is to be displeas'd. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST PART, AND OF THE 
 FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 T. Bensley, Printer. 
 r-olt Court, Fleet Street, London .
 
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