BOOK II.

As when from mountain tops, &c.

Line 488.

"The reader loses half the beauty of this charming simile, who does not give particular attention to the numbers. There is a majesty in them not often equalled, and never surpassed, even by this great poet himself; the movement is uncommonly slow; an effect produced by means already hinted at, the assemblage of a greater proportion of long syllables than usual. The pauses are also managed with great skill and judgment; while the clouds rise, and the heavens gather blackness, they fall in those parts of the verse, where they retard the reader most, and thus become expressive of the solemnity of the subject; but in the latter part of the simile, when the sun breaks out, and the scene brightens, they are so disposed as to allow the verse an easier and less interrupted flow, more suited to the cheerfulness of the occasion."

He concludes with the following summary of the great doctrines that form the foundation of the Paradise Lost.

"It may not be amiss, at the close of these admirable speeches--as admirable for their sound divinity as for the perspicuity with which it is expressed--to allow ourselves a moment's pause, for the purpose of taking a short retrospect of the doctrines contained in them. Man, in the beginning, is placed in a probationary state, and made the arbiter of his own destiny. By his own fault, he forfeits happiness, both for himself and his descendants. But mercy interposes for his restoration. That mercy is represented as perfectly free, as vouchsafed to the most unworthy; to creatures so entirely dead in sin as to be destitute even of a sense of their need of it, and consequently too stupid even to ask it. They are also as poor as they are unfeeling; and, were it possible that they could affect themselves with a just sense and apprehension of their lapsed condition, they would have no compensation to offer to their offended Maker, nothing with which they can satisfy the demands of his justice,--in short, no atonement. In this ruinous state of their affairs, and when all hope of reconciliation seems lost for ever, the Son of God voluntarily undertakes for them,--undertakes to become the son of man also, and to suffer, in man's stead, the penalty annexed to his transgression. In consequence of this self-substitution, Christ becomes the federal head of his church, and the sole author of salvation to his people. As Adam's sin was imputed to his posterity, so the faultless obedience of the second Adam is imputed to all, who, in the great concern of justification, shall renounce their own obedience as imperfect and therefore incompetent. The sentence is thus reversed as to all believers: 'Death is swallowed up in victory.' The Saviour presents the redeemed before the throne of the Eternal Father, in whose countenance no longer any symptom of displeasure appears against them, but their joy and peace are thenceforth perfect. The general resurrection takes place; the saints are made assessors with Christ in the judgment, both of men and angels; the new heaven and earth, the destined habitation of the just, succeed; the Son of God, his whole undertaking accomplished, surrenders the kingdom to his Father: God becomes all in all! It is easy to see, that, among these doctrines, there are some which, in modern times, have been charged with novelty; but how new they are Milton is a witness."

Fuseli, whose labours were so unfortunately superseded, completed a series of admirable paintings from subjects furnished by the Paradise Lost; which were afterwards exhibited in London, under the name of the Milton Gallery. He thus acquired a reputation which placed him in the first rank of artists; and the amateur had the opportunity of seeing, in the Shakspeare and Milton galleries, the most distinguished painters engaged in illustrating the productions of the two greatest authors that ever adorned any age or country.[737]

[737] A popular writer paid the following eloquent tribute to these masterly specimens of professional art.

Yet mark each willing Muse, where Boydell draws, And calls the sister pow'rs in Shakspeare's cause! By art controll'd the fire of Reynolds breaks, And nature's pathos in her Northcote speaks; The Grecian forms in Hamilton combine, Parrhasian grace and Zeuxis' softest line, There Barry's learning meets with Romney's strength, And Smirke portrays Thalia at full length.

Lo! Fuseli (in whose tempestuous soul The unnavigable tides of genius roll,) Depicts the sulph'rous fire, the smould'ring light, The bridge chaotic o'er the abyss of night, With each accursed form and mystic spell, And singly "bears up all the fame of hell!"

_Pursuits of Literature._

This projected edition of Milton is remarkable as having laid the foundation of the intercourse, which soon ripened into friendship, between Cowper and Hayley. The latter was at that time engaged in writing a life of Milton, which gave rise to his being represented as an opponent of Cowper. To exonerate himself from such an imputation, he wrote the letter which we subjoin in a note.[738]

[738]

Eartham, Feb. 1792.

Dear Sir,--I have often been tempted, by affectionate admiration of your poetry, to trouble you with a letter; but I have repeatedly checked myself in recollecting that the vanity of believing ourselves distantly related in spirit to a man of genius is but a sorry apology for intruding on his time.

Though I resisted my desire of professing myself your friend, that I might not disturb you with intrusive familiarity, I cannot resist a desire, equally affectionate, of disclaiming an idea which I am told is imputed to me, of considering myself, on a recent occasion, as an antagonist to you. Allow me, therefore, to say, I was solicited to write a Life of Milton, for Boydell and Nichol, before I had the least idea that you and Mr. Fuseli were concerned in a project similar to theirs. When I first heard of your intention, I was apprehensive that we might undesignedly thwart each other; but, on seeing your proposals, I am agreeably persuaded that our respective labours will be far from clashing; as it is your design to illustrate Milton with a series of notes, and I only mean to execute a more candid life of him than his late biographer has given us, upon a plan that will, I flatter myself, be particularly pleasing to those who love the author as we do.

As to the pecuniary interest of those persons who venture large sums in expensive decoration of Milton, I am persuaded his expanding glory will support them all. Every splendid edition, where the merits of the pencil are in any degree worthy of the poet, will, I think, be secure of success. I wish it cordially to all; as I have a great affection for the arts, and a sincere regard for those whose talents reflect honour upon them.

To you, my dear sir, I have a grateful attachment, for the infinite delight which your writings have afforded me; and if, in the course of your work, I have any opportunity to serve or oblige you, I shall seize it with that friendly spirit which has impelled me at present to assure you, both in prose and rhyme, that I am your cordial admirer,

W. HAYLEY.

P.S. I wrote the enclosed sonnet on being told that our names had been idly printed together in a newspaper, _as hostile competitors_. Pray forgive its partial defects for its affectionate sincerity. From my ignorance of your address, I send this to your bookseller's by a person commissioned to place my name in the list of your subscribers; and let me add, if you ever wish to form a new collection of names for any similar purpose, I entreat you to honour me so far as to rank _mine_, of your own accord, among those of your sincerest friends. Adieu!

SONNET.

TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.

_On hearing that our names had been idly mentioned in a newspaper, as competitors in a Life of Milton._

Cowper! delight of all who justly prize The splendid magic of a strain divine, That sweetly tempts th' enlighten'd soul to rise, As sunbeams lure an eagle to the skies. Poet! to whom I feel my heart incline As to a friend endear'd by virtue's ties; Ne'er shall my name in pride's contentious line With hostile emulation cope with thine! No, let us meet, with kind fraternal aim, Where Milton's shrine invites a votive throng. With thee I share a passion for his fame, His zeal for truth, his scorn of venal blame: But thou hast rarer gifts,--to thee belong His harp of highest tone, his sanctity of song.

* * * * *

Having detailed the circumstances connected with the edition of Milton, we return to the regular correspondence.

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.[739]

[739] Private correspondence.

Weston, Dec. 10, 1793.

You mentioned, my dear friend, in your last letter, an unfavourable sprain that you had received, which you apprehended might be very inconvenient to you for some time to come; and having learned also from Lady Hesketh the same unwelcome intelligence, in terms still more alarming than those in which you related the accident yourself, I cannot but be anxious, as well as my cousin, to know the present state of it; and shall truly rejoice to hear that it is in a state of recovery. Give us a line of information on this subject, as soon as you can conveniently, and you will much oblige us.

I write by morning candle-light; my literary business obliging me to be an early riser. Homer demands me: finished, indeed, but the alterations not transcribed: a work to which I am now hastening as fast as possible. The transcript ended, which is likely to amount to a good sizeable volume, I must write a new preface: and then farewell to Homer for ever! And if the remainder of my days be a little gilded with the profits of this long and laborious work, I shall not regret the time that I have bestowed on it.

I remain, my dear friend, Affectionately yours, W. C.

Can you give us any news of Lord Howe's Armada; concerning which we may inquire, as our forefathers did of the Spanish,--"an in coelum sublata sit, an in Tartarum depressa?"[740]

[740] Lord Howe was at this time in pursuit of the French fleet, and absent six weeks, during which the public received no intelligence of his movements. His lordship at length returned, having only seen the enemy, but without having been able to overtake and bring them to action. Though this furnished no argument against him, but rather showed the terror that he inspired, yet some of the wits of the day wrote the following _jeu d'esprit_ on the occasion.

When Cæsar triumph'd o'er his Gallic foes, Three words concise,* his gallant acts disclose; But Howe, more brief, comprises his in _one_, And _vidi_ tells us all that he has done.

*_Veni, vidi, vici._ I came, I saw, I conquered.

Lord Howe subsequently proved his claim to the whole of this celebrated despatch of Cæsar, by the great victory which he gained off Ushant over the French fleet, June 1, 1794, a victory which forms one of the brightest triumphs of the British navy.

* * * * *

The reader may now be anxious to learn some particulars of the projected poem, which has been repeatedly mentioned under the title of _The Four Ages_; a poem to which the mind of Cowper looked eagerly forward, as to a new and highly promising field for his excursive fancy. The idea had been suggested to him in the year 1791, by his clerical neighbour, Mr. Buchanan, of Ravenstone, a small sequestered village within the distance of an easy walk from Weston. This gentleman, who had occasionally enjoyed the gratification of visiting Cowper, suggested to him, with a becoming diffidence, the project of a new poem on the four distinct periods of life--infancy, youth, manhood, and old age. He imparted his ideas to the poet by a letter, in which he observed, with equal modesty and truth, that Cowper was particularly qualified to relish, and to do justice to the subject; a subject which he supposed not hitherto treated expressly, as its importance deserved, by any poet ancient or modern.

Mr. Buchanan added to this letter a brief sketch of contents for the projected composition. This hasty sketch he enlarged, at the request of Cowper. How the poet appreciated the suggestion will appear from the following billet.

TO THE REV. MR. BUCHANAN.

Weston, May 11, 1793.

My dear Sir,--You have sent me a beautiful poem, wanting nothing but metre. I would to heaven that you would give it that requisite yourself; for he who could make the sketch, cannot but be well qualified to finish. But if you will not, I will; provided always nevertheless, that God gives me ability, for it will require no common share to do justice to your conceptions.

I am much yours, W. C.

Your little messenger vanished before I could catch him.

* * * * *

This work, in his first conception of it, was greatly endeared to him, but he soon entertained an apprehension that he should never accomplish it. Writing to his friend of St. Paul's in 1793, the poet said--"_The Four Ages_ is a subject that delights me when I think of it; but I am ready to fear, that all my ages will be exhausted before I shall be at leisure to write upon it."

A fragment is all that he has left, for which we refer the reader to the Poems. In his happier days, it would have been expanded in a manner more commensurate with the copiousness of the subject, and the poetical powers of the author.

It may be interesting to add, that a modern poem on the Four Ages of Man was written by M. Werthmuller, a citizen of Zurich, and translated into Latin verse, by Dr. Olstrochi, librarian to the Ambrosian library at Milan. This performance gave rise to another German poem on the Four Ages of Woman, by M. Zacharie, professor of poetry at Brunswick.

The increasing infirmities of Cowper's aged companion, Mrs. Unwin, his filial solicitude to alleviate her sufferings, and the gathering clouds of deeper despondency that began to settle on his mind, in the first month of the year 1794, not only rendered it impossible for him to advance in any great original performance, but, to use his own expressive words, in the close of his correspondence with his highly-valued friend, Mr. Rose, made all composition either of poetry or prose impracticable. Writing to that friend in January 1794, he says, "I have just ability enough to transcribe, which is all that I have to do at present: God knows that I write, at this moment, under the pressure of sadness not to be described."

It was a spectacle that might awaken compassion in the sternest of human characters, to see the health, the comfort, and the little fortune of a man, so distinguished by intellectual endowments, and by moral excellence, perishing most deplorably. A sight so affecting made many friends of Cowper solicitous and importunate that his declining life should be honourably protected by public munificence. Men of all parties agreed that a pension might be granted to an author of his acknowledged merit, with graceful propriety.

But such is the difficulty of doing real good, experienced even by the great and powerful, or so apt are statesmen to forget the pressing exigence of meritorious individuals, in the distractions of official perplexity, that month after month elapsed, without the accomplishment of so desirable an object.

Imagination can hardly devise any human condition more truly affecting than the state of the poet at this period. His generous and faithful guardian, Mrs. Unwin, who had preserved him through seasons of the severest calamity, was now, with her faculties and fortune impaired, sinking fast into second childhood. The distress of heart that he felt in beholding the afflicting change in a companion so justly dear to him, conspiring with his constitutional melancholy, was gradually undermining the exquisite faculties of his mind. The disinterested and affectionate kindness of Lady Hesketh, at this crisis, deserves to be recorded in terms of the highest commendation. With a magnanimity of feeling to which it is difficult to do justice, and to the visible detriment of her health, she nobly devoted herself to the superintendence of a house, whose two interesting inhabitants were almost incapacitated from attending to the ordinary offices of life. Those only who have lived with the superannuated and the melancholy, can properly appreciate the value of such a sacrifice.

The two last of Cowper's letters to Hayley, that breathe a spirit of mental activity and cheerful friendship, were written in the close of the year 1793, and in the beginning of the next. They arose from an accident that it may be proper to relate, before we insert them.

On Hayley's return from Weston, he had given an account of the poet to his old friend, Lord Thurlow. That learned and powerful critic, in speaking of Cowper's Homer, declared himself not satisfied with his version of Hector's admirable prayer in caressing his child. Both ventured on new translations of this prayer, which were immediately sent to Cowper, and the following letters will prove with what just and manly freedom of spirit he was at this time able to criticize the composition of his friends and his own.

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

Weston, Dec. 17, 1793.

Oh Jove! and all ye Gods! grant this my son To prove, like me, pre-eminent in Troy! In valour such, and firmness of command! Be he extoll'd, when he returns from fight, As far his sire's superior! may he slay His enemy, bring home his gory spoils, And may his mother's heart o'erflow with joy!

I rose this morning, at six o'clock, on purpose to translate this prayer again, and to write to my dear brother. Here you have it, such as it is, not perfectly according to my own liking, but as well as I could make it, and I think better than either yours or Lord Thurlow's. You with your six lines have made yourself stiff and ungraceful, and he with his seven has produced as good prose as heart can wish, but no poetry at all. A scrupulous attention to the letter has spoiled you both; you have neither the spirit nor the manner of Homer. A portion of both may be found, I believe, in my version, but not so much as I could wish--it is better however than the printed one. His lordship's two first lines I cannot very well understand; he seems to me to give a sense to the original that does not belong to it. Hector, I apprehend, does not say, "Grant that he may prove himself my son, and be eminent," &c.--but "grant that this my son may prove eminent"--which is a material difference. In the latter sense I find the simplicity of an ancient; in the former, that is to say, in the notion of a man proving himself his father's son by similar merit, the finesse and dexterity of a modern. His lordship too makes the man, who gives the young hero his commendation, the person who returns from battle; whereas Homer makes the young hero himself that person, at least if Clarke is a just interpreter, which I suppose is hardly to be disputed.

If my old friend would look into my Preface, he would find a principle laid down there, which perhaps it would not be easy to invalidate, and which properly attended to would equally secure a translation from stiffness and from wildness. The principle I mean is this--"Close, but not so close as to be servile! free, but not so free as to be licentious!" A superstitious fidelity loses the spirit, and a loose deviation the sense of the translated author--a happy moderation in either case is the only possible way of preserving both.

Thus I have disciplined you both, and now, if you please, you may both discipline me. I shall not enter my version in my book till it has undergone your strictures at least, and, should you write to the noble critic again, you are welcome to submit it to his. We are three awkward fellows indeed, if we cannot amongst us make a tolerable good translation of six lines of Homer.

Adieu! W. C.

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

Weston, Jan. 5, 1794.

My dear Hayley,--I have waited, but waited in vain, for a propitious moment when I might give my old friend's objections the consideration they deserve; I shall at last be forced to send a vague answer, unworthy to be sent to a person accustomed, like him, to close reasoning and abstruse discussion; for I rise after ill rest, and with a frame of mind perfectly unsuited to the occasion. I sit too at the window for light's sake, where I am so cold that my pen slips out of my fingers. First, I will give you a translation, _de novo_, of this untranslateable prayer. It is shaped as nearly as I could contrive to his lordship's ideas, but I have little hope that it will satisfy him.

Grant Jove, and all ye Gods, that this my son Be, as myself have been, illustrious here! A valiant man! and let him reign in Troy! May all who witness his return from fight Hereafter, say--he far excels his sire; And let him bring back gory trophies, stript From foes slain by him, to his mother's joy.

Imlac in Rasselas says--I forget to whom, "You have convinced me that it is impossible to be a poet." In like manner I might say to his lordship, you have convinced me that it is impossible to be a translator; to be a translator, on his terms at least, is I am sure impossible. On his terms, I would defy Homer himself, were he alive, to translate the Paradise Lost into Greek. Yet Milton had Homer much in his eye when he composed that poem; whereas Homer never thought of me or my translation. There are minutiæ in every language, which, transfused into another, will spoil the version. Such extreme fidelity is in fact unfaithful. Such close resemblance takes away all likeness. The original is elegant, easy, natural; the copy is clumsy, constrained, unnatural: to what is this owing? To the adoption of terms not congenial to your purpose, and of a context, such as no man writing an original work would make use of. Homer is every thing that a poet should be. A translation of Homer, so made, will be every thing a translation of Homer should not be; because it will be written in no language under heaven. It will be English, and it will be Greek, and therefore it will be neither. He is the man, whoever he be, (I do not pretend to be that man myself,) he is the man best qualified as a translator of Homer, who has drenched, and steeped, and soaked himself in the effusions of his genius, till he has imbibed their colour to the bone, and who, when he is thus dyed through and through, distinguishing between what is essentially Greek, and what may be habited in English, rejects the former, and is faithful to the latter, as far as the purposes of fine poetry will permit, and no farther: this, I think, may be easily proved. Homer is everywhere remarkable either for ease, dignity, or energy of expression; for grandeur of conception, and a majestic flow of numbers. If we copy him so closely as to make every one of these excellent properties of his absolutely unattainable, which will certainly be the effect of too close a copy, instead of translating, we murder him. Therefore, after all his lordship has said, I still hold freedom to be an indispensable--freedom, I mean, with respect to the expression; freedom so limited, as never to leave behind the _matter_; but at the same time indulged with a sufficient scope to secure the spirit, and as much as possible of the manner. I say as much as possible, because an English manner must differ from a Greek one, in order to be graceful, and for this there is no remedy. Can an ungraceful, awkward, translation of Homer be a good one? No: but a graceful, easy, natural, faithful version of him, will not that be a good one? Yes: allow me but this, and I insist upon it, that such a one may be produced on my principles, and can be produced on no other.

I have not had time to criticise his lordship's other version. You know how little time I have for anything, and can tell him so.

Adieu! my dear brother. I have now tired both you and myself; and with the love of the whole trio, remain yours ever,

W. C.

Reading his lordship's sentiments over again, I am inclined to think, that in all I have said, I have only given him back the same in other terms. He disallows both the absolute _free_, and the absolute _close_--so do I, and, if I understand myself, I said so in my preface. He wishes to recommend a medium, though he will not call it so--so do I; only we express it differently. What is it then that we dispute about? My head is not good enough to-day to discover.

* * * * *

These letters were followed by such a silence on the part of Cowper, as excited the severest apprehensions, which were painfully confirmed by the intelligence conveyed in the ensuing letter:--

FROM THE REV. MR. GREATHEED--TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

Newport Pagnel, April 8, 1794.

Dear Sir,--Lady Hesketh's correspondence acquainted you with the melancholy relapse of our dear friend at Weston; but I am uncertain whether you know, that in the last fortnight he has refused food of every kind, except now and then a very small piece of toasted bread dipped generally in water, sometimes mixed with a little wine. This, her ladyship informs me, was the case till last Saturday, since when he has eat a little at each family meal. He persists in refusing such medicines as are indispensable to his state of body. In such circumstances, his long continuance in life cannot be expected. How devoutly to be wished is the alleviation of his danger and distress! You, dear sir, who know so well the worth of our beloved and admired friend, sympathise with his affliction, and deprecate his loss doubtless in no ordinary degree: you have already most effectually expressed and proved the warmth of your friendship. I cannot think that anything but your society would have been sufficient, during the infirmity under which his mind has long been oppressed, to have supported him against the shock of Mrs. Unwin's paralytic attack. I am certain that nothing else could have prevailed upon him to undertake the journey to Eartham. You have succeeded where his other friends knew they could not, and where they apprehended no one could. How natural therefore, nay, how reasonable, is it for them to look to you, as most likely to be instrumental, under the blessing of God, for relief in the present distressing and alarming crisis! It is indeed scarcely attemptable to ask any person to take such a journey, and involve himself in so melancholy a scene, with an uncertainty of the desired success; increased as the apparent difficulty is by dear Mr. Cowper's aversion to all company, and by poor Mrs. Unwin's mental and bodily infirmities. On these accounts Lady Hesketh dares not ask it of you, rejoiced as she would be at your arrival. Am I not, dear sir, a very presumptuous person, who, in the face of all opposition, dare do this? I am emboldened by those two powerful supporters, conscience and experience. Was I at Eartham, I would certainly undertake the labour I presume to recommend, for the bare possibility of restoring Mr. Cowper to himself, to his friends, to the public, and to God.

* * * * *

Hayley, on the receipt of this letter, lost no time in repairing to Weston; but his unhappy friend was too much overwhelmed by his oppressive malady to show even the least glimmering of satisfaction at the appearance of a guest whom he used to receive with the most lively expressions of affectionate delight.

It is the nature of this tremendous melancholy, not only to enshroud and stifle the finest faculties of the mind, but it suspends, and apparently annihilates, for a time, the strongest and best-rooted affections of the heart.

Lady Hesketh, profiting by Hayley's presence, quitted her charge for a few days, that she might have a personal conference with Dr. Willis. A friendly letter from Lord Thurlow to that celebrated physician had requested his attention to the highly interesting sufferer. Dr. Willis prescribed for Cowper, and saw him at Weston, but not with that success and felicity which made his medical skill on another most awful occasion the source of national delight and exultation.

Indeed, the extraordinary state of Cowper appeared to abound with circumstances very unfavourable to his mental relief. The daily sight of a being reduced to such deplorable imbecility as now overwhelmed Mrs. Unwin, was in itself sufficient to plunge a tender spirit into extreme melancholy; yet to separate two friends, so long accustomed to minister, with the purest and most vigilant benevolence, to the infirmities of each other, was a measure so pregnant with complicated distraction, that it could not be advised or attempted. It remained only to palliate the suffering of each in their present most pitiable condition, and to trust in the mercy of that God, who had supported them together through periods of very dark affliction, though not so doubly deplorable as the present.

Who can contemplate this distressing spectacle without recalling the following pathetic exclamation in the Sampson Agonistes of Milton?

God of our fathers, what is man? . . . . . Since such as thou hast solemnly elected, With gifts and graces eminently adorned; . . . . . Yet towards these thus dignified, thou oft Amidst their height of noon, Changest thy count'nance, and thy hand, with no regard Of highest favours past From thee on them, or them to thee of service. . . . . . So deal not with this once thy glorious champion! What do I beg? How hast thou dealt already! Behold him in this state calamitous, and turn His labours, for thou canst, to peaceful end!

It was on the 23rd of April, 1794, in one of those melancholy mornings, when his kind and affectionate relation, Lady Hesketh, and Hayley, were watching together over this dejected sufferer, that a letter from Lord Spencer arrived at Weston, to announce the intended grant of a pension from his Majesty to Cowper, of 300_l._ per annum, rendered payable to his friend Mr. Rose, as the trustee of Cowper. This intelligence produced in the friends of the poet very lively emotions of delight, yet blended with pain almost as powerful; for it was painful, in no trifling degree, to reflect that these desirable smiles of good fortune could not impart even a faint glimmering of joy to the dejected poet.

From the time when Hayley left his unhappy friend at Weston, in the spring of the year 1794, he remained there under the tender vigilance of Lady Hesketh, till the latter end of July, 1795: a long season of the darkest depression! in which the best medical advice and the influence of time appeared equally unable to lighten that afflictive burthen which pressed incessantly on his spirits.

It was under these circumstances that my revered brother-in-law, with a generous disinterestedness and affection that must ever endear him to the admirers of Cowper, determined, with Lady Hesketh's concurrence, to remove the poet and his afflicted companion into Norfolk. In adopting this plan, he did not contemplate more than a year's absence from Weston: but what was intended to be only temporary, proved in the sequel to be a final removal.

Few events could have been more painful to Cowper than a separation from his beloved Weston. Every object was familiar to his eye, and had long engaged the affections of his heart. Its beautiful scenery had been traced with all the minuteness of description and the glow of poetic fancy. The slow-winding Ouse, "bashful, yet impatient to be seen," was henceforth to glide "in its sinuous course" unperceived. The spacious meads, the lengthened colonnade, the proud alcove, and the sound of the sweet village-bells--these memorials of past happy days were to be seen and heard no more. All have felt the pang excited by the separation or loss of friends; but who has not also experienced that even trees have tongues, and that every object in nature knows how to plead its empire over the heart?

What Cowper's sensations were on this occasion, may be collected from the following little incident.

On the morning of his departure from Weston, he wrote the following lines in pencil on the back of the shutter, in his bed-room.

"Farewell, dear scenes, for ever closed to me! Oh! for what sorrows must I now exchange you!"

These lines have been carefully preserved as the expressive memorial of his feelings on leaving Weston. Nor can the following little poem fail to excite interest, not only as being the last original production which he composed at Weston, but from its deep and unaffected pathos. It is addressed to Mrs. Unwin. No language can exhibit a specimen of verse more exquisitely tender.

TO MARY.

The twentieth year is well-nigh past, Since first our sky was overcast, Ah, would that this might be the last! My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow-- 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disus'd, and shine no more, My Mary!

For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary!

But well thou playd'st the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art, Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary!

For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet, gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, That now at every step thou mov'st Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st, My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary!

But, ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary!

And, should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary!

On Tuesday, the twenty-eighth of July, 1795, Cowper and Mrs. Unwin removed, under the care and guidance of Mr. Johnson, from Weston to North-Tuddenham, in Norfolk, by a journey of three days, passing through Cambridge without stopping there. In the evening of the first day they rested at the village of Eaton, near St. Neot's. Cowper walked with his young kinsman in the churchyard by moonlight, and spoke with much composure on the subject of Thomson's Seasons, and the circumstances under which they were probably written. This conversation was almost his last glimmering of cheerfulness.

At North-Tuddenham the travellers were accommodated with a commodious, untenanted parsonage-house, by the kindness of the Rev. Leonard Shelford. Here they resided till the nineteenth of August. It was the considerate intention of Mr. Johnson not to remove them immediately to his own house, in the town of East-Dereham, lest the situation in a market-place should be distressing to the tender spirits of Cowper.

In their new temporary residence they were received by Miss Johnson and Miss Perowne, whose gentle and sympathizing spirit peculiarly qualified them to discharge so delicate an office, and to alleviate the sufferings of the dejected poet.

Severe as his depressive malady appeared at this period, he was still able to bear considerable exercise, and, before he left Tuddenham, he walked with Mr. Johnson to the neighbouring village of Mattishall, on a visit to his cousin, Mrs. Bodham. On surveying his own portrait by Abbot, in the house of that lady, he clasped his hands in a paroxysm of pain, and uttered a vehement wish, that his present sensations might be such as they were when that picture was painted.

In August 1795, Mr. Johnson conducted his two invalids to Mundsley, a village on the Norfolk coast, in the hope that a situation by the sea-side might prove salutary and amusing to Cowper. They continued to reside there till October, but without any apparent benefit to the health of the interesting sufferer.

He had long relinquished epistolary intercourse with his most intimate friends, but his tender solicitude to hear some tidings of his favourite Weston induced him, in September, to write a letter to Mr. Buchanan. It shows the severity of his depression, but proves also that transient gleams of pleasure could occasionally break through the brooding darkness of melancholy.

He begins with a poetical quotation:

"To interpose a little ease, Let my frail thoughts dally with false surmise!"

"I will forget, for a moment, that to whomsoever I may address myself, a letter from me can no otherwise be welcome than as a curiosity. To you, sir, I address this; urged to it by extreme penury of employment, and the desire I feel to learn something of what is doing, and has been done, at Weston, (my beloved Weston!) since I left it.

"The coldness of these blasts, even in the hottest days, has been such, that, added to the irritation of the salt-spray, with which they are always charged, they have occasioned me an inflammation in the eye-lids, which threatened a few days since to confine me entirely, but, by absenting myself as much as possible from the beach, and guarding my face with an umbrella, that inconvenience is in some degree abated. My chamber commands a very near view of the ocean, and the ships at high water approach the coast so closely, that a man furnished with better eyes than mine might, I doubt not, discern the sailors from the window. No situation, at least when the weather is clear and bright, can be pleasanter; which you will easily credit, when I add, that it imparts something a little resembling pleasure even to me.--Gratify me with news of Weston! If Mr. Gregson, and your neighbours the Courtenays are there, mention me to them in such terms as you see good. Tell me if my poor birds are living! I never see the herbs I used to give them, without a recollection of them, and sometimes am ready to gather them, forgetting that I am not at home. Pardon this intrusion!

"Mrs. Unwin continues much as usual.

"Mundsley, Sept. 5, 1795."

* * * * *

Mr. Buchanan endeavoured, with great tenderness and ingenuity, to allure his dejected friend to prolong a correspondence, that seemed to promise some little alleviation to his melancholy; but this distressing malady baffled all the various expedients that could be devised to counteract its overwhelming influence.

Much hope was entertained from air and exercise, with a frequent change of scene.--In September, Mr. Johnson conducted his kinsman (to the promotion of whose recovery he devoted his most unwearied efforts) to take a survey of Dunham-Lodge, a seat at that time vacant; it is situated on high ground, in a park, about four miles from Swaffham. Cowper spoke of it as a house rather too spacious for him, yet such as he was not unwilling to inhabit--a remark which induced Mr. Johnson, at a subsequent period, to become the tenant of this mansion, as a scene more eligible for Cowper than the town of Dereham.--This town they also surveyed in their excursion; and, after passing a night there, returned to Mundsley, which they quitted for the season on the seventh of October.

They removed immediately to Dereham; but left it in the course of a month for Dunham-Lodge, which now became their settled residence.

The spirits of Cowper were not sufficiently revived to allow him to resume either his pen or his books; but the kindness of his young kinsman continued to furnish him with inexhaustible amusement, by reading to him almost incessantly; and, although he was not led to converse on what he heard, yet it failed not to rivet his attention, and so to prevent his afflicted mind from preying on itself.

In April, 1796, Mrs. Unwin, whose infirmities continued to engage the tender attention of Cowper, even in his darkest periods of depression, received a visit from her daughter and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Powley. On their departure, Mr. Johnson assumed the office which Mrs. Powley had tenderly performed for her venerable parent, and regularly read a chapter in the Bible every morning to Mrs. Unwin before she rose. It was the invariable custom of Cowper to visit his poor old friend the moment he had finished his breakfast, and to remain in her apartment while the chapter was read.

In June, the pressure of his melancholy appeared in some degree alleviated, for, on Mr. Johnson's receiving the edition of Pope's Homer, published by Wakefield, Cowper eagerly seized the book, and began to read the notes to himself with visible interest. They awakened his attention to his own version of Homer. In August he deliberately engaged in a revisal of the whole, and for some time produced almost sixty new lines a day.

This mental occupation animated all his intimate friends with a most lively hope of his progressive recovery. But autumn repressed the hope that summer had excited.

In September the family removed from Dunham-Lodge to try again the influence of the sea-side, in their favourite village of Mundsley.

Cowper walked frequently by the sea; but no apparent benefit arose, no mild relief from the incessant pressure of melancholy. He had relinquished his Homer again, and could not yet be induced to resume it.

Towards the end of October, this interesting party retired from the coast to the house of Mr. Johnson, in Dereham--a house now chosen for their winter residence, as Dunham-Lodge appeared to them too dreary.

The long and exemplary life of Mrs. Unwin was drawing towards a close:--the powers of nature were gradually exhausted, and on the seventeenth of December she ended a troubled existence, distinguished by a sublime spirit of piety and friendship, that shone through long periods of calamity, and continued to glimmer through the distressful twilight of her declining faculties. Her death was calm and tranquil. Cowper saw her about half an hour before the moment of expiration, which passed without a struggle or a groan, as the clock was striking one in the afternoon.

On the morning of that day, he said to the servant who opened the window of his chamber, "Sally, is there life above stairs?" A striking proof of his bestowing incessant attention on the sufferings of his aged friend, although he had long appeared almost totally absorbed in his own.

In the dusk of the evening he attended Mr. Johnson to survey the corpse; and after looking at it a very few moments he started suddenly away, with a vehement but unfinished sentence of passionate sorrow. He spoke of her no more.

She was buried by torch-light, on the twenty-third of December, in the north aisle of Dereham church; and two of her friends, impressed with a just and deep sense of her extraordinary merit, have raised a marble tablet to her memory with the following inscription:

IN MEMORY OF MARY,

WIDOW OF THE REV. MORLEY UNWIN, AND MOTHER OF THE REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORN UNWIN, BORN AT ELY, 1724. BURIED IN THIS CHURCH 1796.

Trusting in God, with all her heart and mind This woman prov'd magnanimously kind; Endur'd affliction's desolating hail, And watch'd a poet thro' misfortune's vale. Her spotless dust, angelic guards, defend! It is the dust of Unwin, Cowper's friend! That single title in itself is fame, For all who read his verse revere her name.

It might have been anticipated that the death of Mrs. Unwin, in Cowper's enfeebled state, would have proved too severe a shock to his agitated nerves. But it is mercifully ordained that, while declining years incapacitate us for trials, they, at the same time, weaken the sensibility to suffering, and thereby render us less accessible to the influence of sorrow. It may be regarded as an instance of providential mercy to this afflicted poet, that his aged friend, whose life he had so long considered as essential to his own, was taken from him at a time when the pressure of his malady, a perpetual low fever, both of body and mind, had, in a great degree, diminished the native energy of his faculties and affections.

Owing to these causes, Cowper was so far preserved in this season of trial, that, instead of mourning the loss of a person in whose life he had seemed to live, all perception of that loss was mercifully taken from him; and, from the moment when he hurried away from the inanimate object of his filial attachment, he appeared to have no memory of her having existed, for he never asked a question concerning her funeral, nor ever mentioned her name.

Towards the summer of 1797, his bodily health appeared to improve, but not to such a degree as to restore any comfortable activity to his mind. In June he wrote a brief letter to Hayley, but such as too forcibly expressed the cruelty of his distemper.

The process of digestion never passed regularly in his frame during the years that he resided in Norfolk. Medicine appeared to have little or no influence on his complaint, and his aversion at the sight of it was extreme.

From asses' milk, of which he began a course on the twenty-first of June in this year, he gained a considerable acquisition of bodily strength, and was enabled to bear an airing in an open carriage, before breakfast, with Mr. Johnson.

A depression of mind, which suspended the studies of a writer so eminently endeared to the public, was considered by men of piety and learning as a national misfortune, and several individuals of this description, though personally unknown to Cowper, wrote to him in the benevolent hope that expressions of friendly praise, from persons who could be influenced only by the most laudable motives in bestowing it, might re-animate his dejected spirit. Among these might be enumerated Dr. Watson, the Bishop of Llandaff, who kindly addressed him in the language of encouragement and of soothing consolation; but the pressure of his malady had now made him utterly deaf to the most honourable praise.

He had long discontinued the revisal of his Homer, when his kinsman, dreading the effect of the cessation of bodily exercise upon his mind during a long winter, resolved, if possible, to engage him in the revisal of this work. One morning, therefore, after breakfast, in the month of September, he placed the Commentators on the table, one by one; namely, Villoison, Barnes, and Clarke, opening them all, together with the poet's translation, at the place where he had left off a twelvemonth before, but talking with him, as he paced the room upon a very different subject, namely, the impossibility of the things befalling him which his imagination had represented; when, as his companion had wished, he said to him, "And are you sure that I shall be here till the book you are reading is finished?" "Quite sure," replied his kinsman, "and that you will also be here to complete the revisal of your Homer," pointing to the books, "if you will resume it to-day." As he repeated these words he left the room, rejoicing in the well-known token of their having sunk into the poet's mind, namely, his seating himself on the sofa, taking up one of the books, and saying in a low and plaintive voice, "I may as well do this, for I can do nothing else."[741]

[741] Sketch of the Life of Cowper.

In this labour he persevered, oppressed as he was by indisposition, till March 1799. On Friday evening, the eighth of that month, he completed his revisal of the Odyssey, and the next morning wrote part of a new preface.

To watch over the disordered health of afflicted genius, and to lead a powerful, but oppressed, spirit by gentle encouragement, to exert itself in salutary occupation, is an office that requires a very rare union of tenderness, intelligence, and fortitude. To contemplate and minister to a great mind, in a state that borders on mental desolation, is like surveying, in the midst of a desert, the tottering ruins of palaces and temples, where the faculties of the spectator are almost absorbed in wonder and regret, and where every step is taken with awful apprehension.

Hayley, in alluding to Dr. Johnson's kind and affectionate offices, at this period, bears the following honourable testimony to his merits, which we are happy in transcribing. "It seemed as if Providence had expressly formed the young kinsman of Cowper to prove exactly such a guardian to his declining years as the peculiar exigencies of his situation required. I never saw the human being that could, I think, have sustained the delicate and arduous office (in which the inexhaustible virtues of Mr. Johnson persevered to the last) through a period so long, with an equal portion of unvaried tenderness and unshaken fidelity. A man who wanted sensibility would have renounced the duty; and a man endowed with a particle too much of that valuable, though perilous, quality, must have felt his own health utterly undermined, by an excess of sympathy with the sufferings perpetually in his sight. Mr. Johnson has completely discharged, perhaps, the most trying of human duties; and I trust he will forgive me for this public declaration, that, in his mode of discharging it, he has merited the most cordial esteem from all, who love the memory of Cowper. Even a stranger may consider it as a strong proof of his tender dexterity in soothing and guiding the afflicted poet, that he was able to engage him steadily to pursue and finish the revisal and correction of his Homer, during a long period of bodily and mental sufferings, when his troubled mind recoiled from all intercourse with his most intimate friends, and laboured under a morbid abhorrence of all cheerful exertion."

In the summer of 1798, his kinsman was induced to vary his plan of remaining for some months in the marine village of Mundsley, and thought it more eligible to make frequent visits from Dereham to the coast, passing a week at a time by the sea-side.

Cowper, in his poem on "Retirement," seems to inform us what his own sentiments were, in a season of health, concerning the regimen most proper for the disease of melancholy.

Virtuous and faithful Heberden, whose skill Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil, Gives melancholy up to nature's care, And sends the patient into purer air.

The frequent change of place, and the magnificence of marine scenery, produced at times a little relief to his depressed spirits. On the 7th of June 1798, he surveyed the light-house at Happisburgh, and expressed some pleasure on beholding, through a telescope, several ships at a distance. Yet, in his usual walk with his companion by the sea-side, he exemplified but too forcibly his own affecting description of melancholy silence:

That silent tongue Could give advice, could censure, or commend, Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend; Renounc'd alike its office and its sport, Its brisker and its graver strains fall short: Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway, And, like a summer-brook, are past away.

On the twenty-fourth of July, Cowper had the honour of a visit from a lady, for whom he had long entertained affectionate respect, the Dowager Lady Spencer--and it was rather remarkable, that on the very morning she called upon him he had begun his revisal of the Odyssey, which was originally inscribed to her. Such an incident in a happier season would have produced a very enlivening effect on his spirits: but, in his present state, it had not even the power to lead him into any free conversation with his distinguished visitor.

The only amusement that he appeared to admit without reluctance was the reading of his kinsman, who, indefatigable in the supply of such amusement, had exhausted a successive series of works of fiction, and at this period began reading to the poet his own works. To these he listened also in silence, and heard all his poems recited in order, till the reader arrived at the history of John Gilpin, which he begged not to hear. Mr. Johnson proceeded to his manuscript poems; to these he willingly listened, but made not a single remark on any.

In October 1798, the pressure of his melancholy seemed to be mitigated in some little degree, for he exerted himself so far as to write the following letter, without solicitation, to Lady Hesketh.

* * * * *

Dear Cousin,--You describe delightful scenes, but you describe them to one, who, if he even saw them, could receive no delight from them: who has a faint recollection, and so faint, as to be like an almost forgotten dream, that once he was susceptible of pleasure from such causes. The country that you have had in prospect has been always famed for its beauties; but the wretch who can derive no gratification from a view of nature, even under the disadvantage of her most ordinary dress, will have no eyes to admire her in any.

In one day, in one minute, I should rather have said, she became an universal blank to me, and though from a different cause, yet with an effect as difficult to remove as blindness itself.

. . . . . . .

Mundsley, Oct. 13, 1798.

* * * * *

On his return from Mundsley to Dereham, in an evening towards the end of October, Cowper, with Miss Perowne and Mr. Johnson, was overturned in a post-chaise: he discovered no terror on the occasion, and escaped without injury from the accident.

In December he received a visit from his highly esteemed friend, Sir John Throckmorton, but his malady was at that time so oppressive that it rendered him almost insensible to the kind solicitude of friendship.

He still continued to exercise the powers of his astonishing mind: upon his finishing the revisal of his Homer, in March, 1799, his kinsman endeavoured in the gentlest manner to lead him into new literary occupation.

For this purpose, on the eleventh of March he laid before him the paper containing the comencement of his poem on "The Four Ages." Cowper altered a few lines; he also added a few, but soon observed to his kind attendant--"that it was too great a work for him to attempt in his present situation."

At supper Mr. Johnson suggested to him several literary projects that he might execute more easily. He replied--"that he had just thought of six Latin verses, and if he could compose anything it must be in pursuing that composition."

The next morning he wrote the six verses he had mentioned, and subsequently added the remainder, entitling the poem, "Montes Glaciales."

It proved a versification of a circumstance recorded in a newspaper, which had been read to him a few weeks before, without his appearing to notice it. This poem he translated into English verse, on the nineteenth of March, to oblige Miss Perowne. Both the original and the translation appear in the Poems.

On the twentieth of March he wrote the stanzas entitled "The Cast-away," founded on an anecdote in Anson's Voyage, which his memory suggested to him, although he had not looked into the book for many years.

As this poem is the last original production from the pen of Cowper, we shall introduce it here, persuaded that it will be read with an interest proportioned to the extraordinary pathos of the subject, and the still more extraordinary powers of the poet, whose lyre could sound so forcibly, unsilenced by the gloom of the darkest distemper, that was conducting him, by slow gradations, to the shadow of death.

THE CAST-AWAY.

Obscurest night involv'd the sky; Th' Atlantic billows roar'd, When such a destin'd wretch as I, Wash'd headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast Than he with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion's coast, With warmer wishes sent. He lov'd them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the 'whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away; But wag'd with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.

He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd To check the vessel's course, But so the furious blast prevail'd, That, pitiless, per force, They left their out-cast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford; And, such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord, Delayed not to bestow. But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore, Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor cruel, as it seem'd, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld: And so long he, with unspent pow'r, His destiny repell'd: And ever, as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cry'd--"Adieu!"

At length his transient respite past, His comrades who before Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast, Could catch the sound no more. For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him: but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age, Is wet with Anson's tear. And tears by bards or heroes shed, Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate! To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date, But misery still delights to trace Its 'semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd, No light propitious shone; When, snatch'd from all effectual aid, We perish'd, each alone; But I beneath a rougher sea, And 'whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

In August he translated this poem into Latin verse. In October he went with Miss Perowne and Mr. Johnson to survey a larger house in Dereham, which he preferred to their present residence, and in which the family were settled in the following December.

Though his corporeal strength was now evidently declining, the urgent persuasion of his kinsman induced him to amuse his mind with frequent composition. Between August and December, he wrote all the translations from various Latin and Greek epigrams, which the reader will find in the present volume.

In his new residence, he amused himself with translating a few fables of Gay's into Latin verse. The fable which he used to recite when a child--"The Hare and many Friends"--became one of his latest amusements.

These Latin fables were all written in January 1800. Towards the end of that month, Hayley requested him to new-model a passage in his Homer, relating to the curious monument of ancient sculpture, so gracefully described by Homer, called the Cretan Dance. This being the last effort of his pen, and the passage being interesting, as a representation of ancient manners, we here insert it.

To these the glorious artist added next A varied dance, resembling that of old In Crete's broad isle, by Dædalus, compos'd For bright-hair'd Ariadne. There the youths And youth-alluring maidens, hand in hand, Danc'd jocund, ev'ry maiden neat attir'd In finest linen, and the youths in vests Well-woven, glossy as the glaze of oil. These all wore garlands, and bright falchions those, Of burnish'd gold, in silver trappings hung;-- They, with well-tutor'd step, now, nimbly ran The circle, swift, as when, before his wheel Seated, the potter twirls it with both hands For trial of its speed; now, crossing quick They pass'd at once into each other's place. A circling crowd surveyed the lovely dance, Delighted; two, the leading pair, their head With graceful inclination bowing oft, Pass'd swift between them, and began the song.

_See Cowper's Version_, Book xviii.

On the very day that this endearing mark of his kindness reached Hayley, a dropsical appearance in his legs induced Mr. Johnson to have recourse to fresh medical assistance. Cowper was with great difficulty persuaded to take the remedies prescribed, and to try the exercise of a post-chaise, an exercise which he could not bear beyond the twenty-second of February.

In March, when his decline became more and more visible, he was visited by Mr. Rose. He hardly expressed any pleasure on the arrival of a friend whom he had so long and so tenderly regarded, yet he showed evident signs of regret at his departure, on the sixth of April.

The illness and impending death of his talented son precluded Hayley from sharing with Mr. Rose in these last marks of affectionate attention towards the man, whose genius and virtues they had once contemplated together with mutual veneration and delight; whose approaching dissolution they felt, not only as an irreparable loss to themselves, but as a national misfortune. On the nineteenth of April, Dr. Johnson remarks, the weakness of this truly pitiable sufferer had so much increased, that his kinsman apprehended his death to be near. Adverting, therefore, to the affliction, as well of body as of mind, which his beloved inmate was then enduring, he ventured to speak of his approaching dissolution as the signal of his deliverance from both these miseries. After a pause of a few moments, which was less interrupted by the objections of his desponding relative than he had dared to hope, he proceeded to an observation more consolatory still; namely, that, in the world to which he was hastening, a merciful Redeemer had prepared unspeakable happiness for all his children--and therefore for him. To the first part of this sentence, he had listened with composure, but the concluding words were no sooner uttered, than his passionately expressed entreaties, that his companion would desist from any further observations of a similar kind, clearly proved that, though it was on the eve of being invested with angelic light, the darkness of delusion still veiled his spirit.[742]

[742] Sketch of the Life of Cowper, by Dr. Johnson.

On Sunday, the twentieth, he seemed a little revived.

On Monday he appeared dying, but recovered so much as to eat a slight dinner.

Tuesday and Wednesday he grew apparently weaker every hour.

On Thursday he sat up as usual in the evening.

In the course of the night, when exceedingly exhausted, Miss Perowne offered him some refreshment. He rejected it with these words, the very last that he was heard to utter, "What can it signify?"

Dr. Johnson closes the affecting account in the following words.

"At five in the morning of Friday 25th, a deadly change in his features was observed to take place. He remained in an insensible state from that time till about five minutes before five in the afternoon, when he ceased to breathe. And in so mild and gentle a manner did his spirit take its flight, that though the writer of this Memoir, his medical attendant Mr. Woods, and three other persons, were standing at the foot and side of the bed, with their eyes fixed upon his dying countenance, the precise moment of his departure was unobserved by any."

From this mournful period, till the features of his deceased friend were closed from his view, the expression which the kinsman of Cowper observed in them, and which he was affectionately delighted to suppose "an index of the last thoughts and enjoyments of his soul, in its gradual escape from the depths of despondence, was that of calmness and composure, mingled, as it were, with holy surprise."

He was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel, in the church of East Dereham, on Saturday, May 2nd, attended by several of his relations.

He left a will, but without appointing his executor. The administration, therefore, of the little property he possessed devolved on his affectionate relative, Lady Hesketh; but not having been carried into effect by that Lady, the office, on her decease, was undertaken by his cousin german, Mrs. Bodham.

Lady Hesketh raised a marble tablet to his memory, with the following inscription from the pen of Hayley:

IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. BORN IN HERTFORDSHIRE, 1731, BURIED IN THIS CHURCH.

Ye, who with warmth the public triumph feel Of talents, dignified by sacred zeal, Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just, Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust! England, exulting in his spotless fame, Ranks with her dearest sons his favourite name. Sense, fancy, wit, suffice not all to raise So clear a title to affection's praise; His highest honours to the heart belong; His virtues form'd the magic of his song.

We have now conducted the endeared subject of this biography through the various scenes of his chequered and eventful life, till its last solemn termination; and it is impossible that any other feelings can have been awakened than those of admiration for his genius, homage for his virtues, and profound sympathy for his sufferings. It was fully anticipated by his friends, that the hour of final liberation, at least, would have been cheered by that calm sense of the divine presence, which is the delightful foretaste of eternal rest and glory. Young beautifully observes:

The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileged beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite on the verge of heaven.

The Bible proclaims the same animating truth. "Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright, for the end of that man is peace!" The divine faithfulness is an ample security for the fulfilment of these declarations; but the promises of God, firm and unchangeable as they are in themselves, after all, can be realized only in a mind disposed for their reception; as the light cannot pass through a medium that is incapable of admitting it. Such, alas! is the influence of physical causes and of a morbid temperament on the inward perceptions of the soul, that it is possible to be a child of God, without a consciousness of the blessing, and to have a title to a crown, and yet feel to be immured in the depths of a dungeon.

The consolation to the friends of the unhappy sufferer, if not to the patient himself, is, that the chains are of his own forging, and that, if he had but the discernment to know it, the delusion would promptly vanish, and the peace of God flow into the soul like a river.

That such was the case with Cowper, no one can doubt for a moment. A species of mental aberration, on a particular subject, involved his mind in a strange and sad delusion. The Sun of Righteousness, therefore, failed in his last moments to impart its refreshing light and comfort, because the cloud of despair intervened, and obscured the setting beams of grace and glory.

Who can contemplate so mysterious a process of the mind, without exclaiming--

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man! How passing wonder He, who made him such! Who centred in our make such strange extremes!

It is impossible to dwell on the manner of Cowper's death, and not to be reminded of the wish cherished by himself on this subject, and recorded so impressively in the following lines:

So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, More golden than that age of fabled gold Renowned in ancient song; not vex'd with care, Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. _So glide my life away! and so, at last, My share of duties decently fulfill'd, May some disease, not tardy to perform Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat, Beneath the turf that I have often trod._[743]

[743] The Task, book vi.

God mercifully granted the best portion of his prayer, but saw fit to deny the rest. No conscious guilt or open transgression stained his life; his heart was the seat of every beneficent and kind affection. As an author, he was blessed with an honourable career of usefulness; the public voice conferred upon him the title to immortality, and succeeding times have ratified the claim. But if perception be necessary to enjoyment, he was not "peaceful in his end;" for he died without this conviction. He did not, like Elijah, ascend in a chariot of fire; it was his lot rather to realize the quaint remark of some of the old divines, "God sometimes puts his children to bed in the dark," that they may have nothing whereof to boast; that their salvation may appear to be more fully the result of his own free and unmerited mercy, and that in this, as in all things, he may be known to act as a sovereign, who "giveth no account of his matters."[744]

[744] Job xxxiii. 13.

But the severest exercises of faith are always mingled with some gracious purpose; and God may perhaps see fit to appoint these dark dispensations, that the transition into eternity may be more glorious; and that the emancipated spirit, bursting the shackles of death and sin, and delivered from the bondage of its fears, may rise with a nobler triumph from the depths of humiliation into the very presence-chamber of its God.

These remarks are so closely connected with the subject of Cowper's afflicting malady, that the time is now arrived when it is necessary to enter into a more detailed view of its nature and character; to trace its origin and progress, and to disengage this complicated question from that prejudice and misrepresentation which have so inveterately attached to it. At the same time, it is with profound reluctance that the Editor enters upon this painful theme, from a deep conviction that it does not form a proper subject for discussion, and that the veil of secrecy is never more suitably employed, than when it is thrown over infirmities which are too sacred to meet the gaze of public observation. This inquiry is now, however, no longer optional. Cowper himself has, unfortunately, suffered in the public estimation by the manner in which his earliest biographer, Hayley, has presented him before the public. By suppressing some very important letters, which tended to elucidate his real character, an air of mystery has been imparted which deeply affects its consistency; while, by attributing what he could not sufficiently conceal of the malady of the poet to the operation of religious causes, truth has been violated, and an unmerited wound inflicted upon religion itself. Thus Hayley, from motives of delicacy most probably, or from misapprehension of the subject, has committed a double error; while others, misled by his authority, have unhappily aided in propagating the delusion.

The Private Correspondence of Cowper, which is exclusively incorporated with the present edition, is of the first importance, as it dispels the mystery previously attached to his character. All that now remains is, to establish by undeniable evidence that, so far from religious causes having been instrumental to his malady, the order of events and the testimony of positive facts both militate against such a conclusion.

For this purpose, we shall now introduce to the notice of the reader, copious extracts from the Memoir of Cowper, written by himself, containing the particulars of his life, from his earliest years to the period of his malady and subsequent recovery. This remarkable document was intended to record his sense of the Divine mercy in the preservation of his life, during a season of disastrous feeling; and to perpetuate the remembrance of that grace which overruled this event, in so remarkable a manner, to his best and eternal interests. He designed this document principally for the perusal of Mrs. Unwin, to whose hands it was most confidentially entrusted. A copy was also presented to Mr. Newton, and ultimately to Dr. Johnson; but the parties were strictly enjoined never to allow another copy to be taken. By some means the Memoir at length found its way before the public. On this ground the editor feels less difficulty in communicating its purport; as the seal of secrecy has been already broken, though in the estimation of Dr. Johnson and his friends, in so unauthorized a manner. Its publication, however, has been unquestionably attended by one beneficial result, in having established, beyond the possibility of contradiction, that so far from Cowper's religious views having been the source of his malady, they were the first occasion and instrument of its cure.[745]

[745] The following is the result of the information obtained by the Editor on this subject, after the minutest inquiry. A lady who was on a visit at Mr. Newton's, in London, saw, it is said, this Memoir of Cowper lying, among other papers, on the table. She was led to peruse it, and felt a deeper interest in the contents, from having herself been recently recovered from a state of derangement. She privately copied the manuscript, and communicated it to some friend. It was finally published by a pious character, who considered that in so doing he exonerated the religious views of Cowper from the charge of having been instrumental to his malady.

The Memoir is interesting in another respect. It elucidates the early events of Cowper's history. One important subject is however omitted, his attachment to Miss Theodora Cowper, the failure of which formed no small ingredient in the disappointments of his early life. This omission we shall be enabled to supply.

With these preliminary remarks we shall now introduce this curious and remarkable document, simply suppressing those portions which violate the feelings, without being essential to the substance of the narrative.

MEMOIR OF THE EARLY LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.

I cannot recollect, that, till the month of December, in the thirty-second year of my life, I had ever any serious impressions of the religious kind, or at all bethought myself of the things of my salvation, except in two or three instances. The first was of so transitory a nature, and passed when I was so very young, that, did I not intend what follows for a history of my heart, so far as religion has been its object, I should hardly mention it.

At six years old, I was taken from the nursery, and from the immediate care of a most indulgent mother, and sent to a considerable school in Bedfordshire.[746] Here I had hardships of different kinds to conflict with, which I felt more sensibly in proportion to the tenderness with which I had been treated at home. But my chief affliction consisted in my being singled out from all the other boys, by a lad about fifteen years of age, as a proper object upon whom he might let loose the cruelty of his temper. I choose to forbear a particular recital of the many acts of barbarity with which he made it his business continually to persecute me: it will be sufficient to say, that he had, by his savage treatment of me, impressed such a dread of his figure upon my mind, that I well remember being afraid to lift up my eyes upon him, higher than his knees; and that I knew him by his shoe-buckles better than any other part of his dress. May the Lord pardon him, and may we meet in glory!

[746] Market Street. Hayley places this village in Hertfordshire, and Cowper in Bedfordshire. Both are right, for the public road or street forms a boundary between the two counties.

One day, as I was sitting alone on a bench in the school, melancholy, and almost ready to weep at the recollection of what I had already suffered, and expecting at the same time my tormentor every moment, these words of the Psalmist came into my mind, "I will not be afraid of what man can do unto me." I applied this to my own case, with a degree of trust and confidence in God that would have been no disgrace to a much more experienced Christian. Instantly I perceived in myself a briskness of spirits, and a cheerfulness, which I had never before experienced,--and took several paces up and down the room with joyful alacrity--_his_ gift in whom I trusted. Happy had it been for me, if this early effort towards a dependence on the blessed God had been frequently repeated by me. But, alas! it was the first and last instance of the kind between infancy and manhood. The cruelty of this boy, which he had long practised in so secret a manner that no creature suspected it, was at length discovered. He was expelled from the school, and I was taken from it.

From hence, at eight years old, I was sent to Mr. D., an eminent surgeon and oculist, having very weak eyes, and being in danger of losing one of them. I continued a year in this family, where religion was neither known nor practised; and from thence was despatched to Westminster. Whatever seeds of religion I might carry thither, before my seven years' apprenticeship to the classics was expired, they were all marred and corrupted; the duty of the school-boy swallowed up every other; and I acquired Latin and Greek at the expense of a knowledge much more important.[747]

[747] We deeply lament that boys frequently leave public schools most discreditably deficient even in the common principles of the Christian faith. My late lamented friend, the Rev. Legh Richmond, used to observe that Christ was crucified between classics and mathematics. A great improvement might be effected in the system of modern education, if a brief but compendious summary of divine truth, or analysis of the Bible, were drawn up, divided into parts, suited to the different gradations of age and knowledge, and introduced into our public schools under the sanction of the Episcopal Bench. Care should also be taken, in the selection of under-masters, to appoint men of _acknowledged religious as well as classical attainments_, who might specially superintend the religious improvement of the boys. Such are to be found in our Universities, men not less eminent for divine than profane knowledge. A visible reformation would thus be effected, powerfully operating on the moral and spiritual character of the rising generation.

Here occurred the second instance of serious consideration. As I was crossing St. Margaret's churchyard, late one evening, I saw a glimmering light in the midst of it, which excited my curiosity. Just as I arrived at the spot, a grave-digger, who was at work by the light of his lanthorn, threw up a skull which struck me upon the leg. This little accident was an alarm to my conscience; for that event may be numbered among the best religious documents which I received at Westminster. The impression, however, presently went off, and I became so forgetful of mortality, that, strange as it may seem, surveying my activity and strength, and observing the evenness of my pulse, I began to entertain, with no small complacency, a notion that perhaps I might never die! This notion was, however, very short-lived; _for I was soon after struck with a lowness of spirits_, uncommon at my age, and frequently had intimations of a consumptive habit. I had skill enough to understand their meaning, but could never prevail on myself to disclose them to any one; for I thought any bodily infirmity a disgrace, especially a consumption. This messenger from the Lord, however, did his errand, and perfectly convinced me that I was mortal.

That I may do justice to the place of my education, I must relate one mark of religious discipline, which, in my time, was observed at Westminster; I mean, the pains which Dr. Nicholls took to prepare us for confirmation. The old man acquitted himself of his duty like one who had a deep sense of its importance; and I believe most of us were struck by his manner, and affected by his exhortation. For my own part, I then, for the first time, attempted prayer in secret; but being little accustomed to that exercise of the heart, and having very childish notions of religion, I found it a difficult and painful task; and was even then frightened at my own insensibility. This difficulty, though it did not subdue my good purposes, till the ceremony of confirmation was past, soon after entirely conquered them; I relapsed into a total forgetfulness of God, with the usual disadvantage of being more hardened, for having been softened to no purpose.

At twelve or thirteen I was seized with the small-pox. I only mention this, to show that, at that early age, my heart was become proof against the ordinary means which a gracious God employs for our chastisement. Though I was severely handled by the disease, and in imminent danger, yet neither in the course of it, nor during my recovery, had I any sentiment of contrition, any thought of God or eternity. On the contrary, I was scarcely raised from the bed of pain and sickness, before the emotions of sin became more violent in me than ever; and Satan seemed rather to have gained than lost an advantage; so readily did I admit his suggestions, and so passive was I under them.

By this time I became such an adept in falsehood that I was seldom guilty of a fault for which I could not, at a very short notice, invent an apology, capable of deceiving the wisest. These, I know, are called school-boys' tricks; but a sad depravity of principle, and the work of the father of lies, are universally at the bottom of them.

At the age of eighteen, being tolerably furnished with grammatical knowledge, but as ignorant in all points of religion as the satchel at my back, I was taken from Westminster; and, having spent about nine months at home, was sent to acquire the practice of the law with an attorney. There I might have lived and died without hearing or seeing any thing that might remind me of a single Christian duty, had it not been that I was at liberty to spend my leisure time (which was well nigh all my time) at my uncle's,[748] in Southampton Row. By this means I had indeed an opportunity of seeing the inside of a church, whither I went with the family on Sundays, which probably I should otherwise never have seen.

[748] Ashley Cowper, Esq.

At the expiration of this term, I became, in a manner, complete master of myself; and took possession of a complete set of chambers in the Temple, at the age of twenty-one. This being a critical season of my life, and one upon which much depended, it pleased my all-merciful Father in Jesus Christ to give a check to my rash and ruinous career of wickedness at the very onset. _I was struck, not long after my settlement in the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, as none but they who have felt the same can have the least conception of. Day and night I was upon the rack, lying down in horror, and rising up in despair._[749] I presently lost all relish for those studies to which I had before been closely attached; the classics had no longer any charms for me; I had need of something more salutary than amusement, but I had no one to direct me where to find it.

[749] Here we first observe the ground-work of Cowper's malady, originating in constitutional causes, and morbid temperament.

At length I met with Herbert's Poems; and gothic and uncouth as they were, I yet found in them a strain of piety which I could not but admire. This was the only author I had any delight in reading. I pored over him all day long; and though I found not here, what I might have found, a cure for my malady, yet it never seemed so much alleviated as while I was reading him. At length I was advised by a very near and dear relative, to lay him aside; for he thought such an author more likely to nourish my disorder than to remove it.[750]

[750] A relative of Cowper's ought to have been the last to prohibit the perusal of Herbert's Poems, because Dr. John Donne, the pious and eminent Dean of St. Paul's, one of Cowper's ancestors, was the endeared friend of that holy man, to whom, not long before his death, he sent a seal, representing a figure of Christ extended upon an anchor, the emblem of Hope, to be kept as a memorial.

Izaak Walton bears the following expressive testimony to Herbert's Temple, or Sacred Poems.

"A book, in which by declaring his own spiritual conflicts, he hath comforted and raised many a dejected and discomposed soul, and charmed them into sweet and quiet thoughts; a book, by the frequent reading whereof, and the assistance of that Spirit that seemed to inspire the author, the reader may attain habits of _peace_ and _piety_, and all the gifts of the _Holy Ghost_ and _Heaven_: and may, by still reading, still keep those sacred fires burning upon the altar of so pure a heart, as shall free it from the anxieties of this world, and keep it fixed upon things that are above." _See Walton's Lives._

In this state of mind I continued near a twelvemonth; when, having experienced the inefficacy of all human means, I at length betook myself to God in prayer; such is the rank which our Redeemer holds in our esteem, never resorted to but in the last instance, when all creatures have failed to succour us. My hard heart was at length softened; and my stubborn knees brought to bow. I composed a set of prayers, and made frequent use of them. Weak as my faith was, the Almighty, who will not break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax, was graciously pleased to hear me.

A change of scene was recommended to me; and I embraced an opportunity of going with some friends to Southampton, where I spent several months. Soon after our arrival, we walked to a place called Freemantle, about a mile from the town: the morning was clear and calm; the sun shone bright upon the sea; and the country on the borders of it was the most beautiful I had ever seen. We sat down upon an eminence, at the end of the arm of the sea, which runs between Southampton and the New Forest. Here it was, that, on a sudden, as if another sun had been kindled that instant in the heavens, on purpose to dispel sorrow and vexation of spirit, I felt the weight of all my misery taken off; my heart became light and joyful in a moment; I could have wept with transport had I been alone. I must needs believe that nothing less than the Almighty fiat could have filled me with such inexpressible delight; not by a gradual dawning of peace, but as it were with a flash of his life-giving countenance. I think I remember something like a glow of gratitude to the Father of mercies for this unexpected blessing, and that I ascribed it to his gracious acceptance of my prayers. But Satan, and my own wicked heart, quickly persuaded me that I was indebted for my deliverance to nothing but a change of scene and the amusing varieties of the place. By this means he turned the blessing into a poison; teaching me to conclude, that nothing but a continued circle of diversion, and indulgence of appetite, could secure me from a relapse.[751]

[751] We do not know a state of mind more to be deprecated than what is indicated in this passage. It is the science of self-tormenting, that withers every joy, and blights all our happiness. That Satan tempts is a scriptural truth; but the same divine authority also informs us, that "every man is tempted when he is drawn away of his own lust and enticed," James i. 14: that God suffereth no man to be tempted above what he is able, and that if we resist Satan he will flee from us. The mind that feels itself harassed by these mental temptations must take refuge in the promises of God, such as Isaiah xli. 10; xliii. 2; lix. 19; 2 Cor. xii. 9, and plead them in prayer. Resistance to temptation will weaken it, faith will overcome it, and the panoply of Heaven, if we be careful to gird ourselves with it, will secure us against all its inroads.

Upon this false principle, as soon as I returned to London, I burnt my prayers, and away went all thoughts of devotion and dependence upon God my Saviour. Surely it was of his mercy that I was not consumed; glory be to his grace! Two deliverances from danger not making any impression, having spent about twelve years in the Temple, in an uninterrupted course of sinful indulgence, and my associates and companions being either, like myself, professed Christians, or professed infidels, I obtained, at length, so complete a victory over my conscience, that all remonstrances from that quarter were in vain, and in a manner silenced; though sometimes, indeed, a question would arise in my mind, whether it were safe to proceed any farther in a course so plainly and utterly condemned in the word of God. I saw clearly that if the gospel were true, such a conduct must inevitably end in my destruction; but I saw not by what means I could change my Ethiopian complexion, or overcome such an inveterate habit of rebelling against God.

The next thing that occurred to me was a doubt whether the gospel were true or false. To this succeeded many an anxious wish for the decision of this important question; for I foolishly thought, that obedience would presently follow, were I but convinced that it was worth while to attempt it. Having no reason to expect a miracle, and not hoping to be satisfied with any thing less, I acquiesced, at length, in the force of that devilish conclusion, that the only course I could take to secure my present peace was to wink hard against the prospect of future misery, and to resolve to banish all thoughts of a subject, upon which I thought to so little purpose. Nevertheless, when I was in the company of deists, and heard the gospel blasphemed, I never failed to assert the truth of it with much vehemence of disputation; for which I was the better qualified, having been always an industrious and diligent inquirer into the evidences by which it was externally supported. I think I once went so far into a controversy of this kind, as to assert, that I would gladly submit to have my right hand cut off, so that I might but be enabled to live according to the gospel. Thus have I been employed, when half intoxicated, in vindicating the truth of scripture, while in the very act of rebellion against its dictates. Lamentable inconsistency of a convinced judgment with an unsanctified heart! An inconsistency, indeed, evident to others as well as to myself, inasmuch as a deistical friend of mine, with whom I was disputing upon the subject, cut short the matter, by alleging that, if what I said were true, I was certainly lost by my own showing.

By this time, my patrimony being well nigh spent, and there being no appearance that I should ever repair the damage by a fortune of my own getting, I began to be a little apprehensive of approaching want. It was, I imagine, under some apprehensions of this kind, that I one day said to a friend of mine, if the clerk to the journals of the House of Lords should die, I had some hopes that my kinsman, who had the place in his disposal, would appoint me to succeed him. We both agreed that the business of that place, being transacted in private, would exactly suit me. Thus did I covet what God had commanded me not to covet. It pleased the Lord to give me my heart's desire, and with it an immediate punishment for my crime. The man died, and, by his death, not only the clerkship of the journals became vacant, but it became necessary to appoint officers to two other places, jointly, as deputies to Mr. De Grey,[752] who at this time resigned. These were the office of reading clerk, and the clerkship of the committees, of much greater value than that of the journals. The patentee of these appointments (whom I pray to God to bless for his benevolent intention to serve me) called on me at my chambers, and, having invited me to take a turn with him in the garden, there made me an offer of the two most profitable places; intending the other for his friend Mr. A. Dazzled by so splendid a proposal, and not immediately reflecting upon my incapacity to execute a business of so public a nature, I at once accepted it; but at the same time (such was the will of Him whose hand was in the whole matter) seemed to receive a dagger in my heart. _The wound was given, and every moment added to the smart of it._ All the considerations, by which I endeavoured to compose my mind to its former tranquillity, did but torment me the more; proving miserable comforters and counsellors of no value. I returned to my chambers thoughtful and unhappy; my countenance fell; and my friend was astonished, instead of that additional cheerfulness he might so reasonably expect, to find an air of deep melancholy in all I said or did.

[752] Afterwards Lord Chief Justice, in the Court of Common Pleas, and created Lord Walsingham.

Having been harassed in this manner by day and night, for the space of a week, perplexed between the apparent folly of casting away the only visible chance I had of being well provided for and the impossibility of retaining it, I determined at length to write a letter to my friend, though he lodged in a manner at the next door, and we generally spent the day together. I did so, and therein begged him to accept my resignation, and to appoint Mr. A. to the places he had given me; and permit me to succeed Mr. A. I was well aware of the disproportion between the value of his appointment and mine; but my peace was gone; pecuniary advantages were not equivalent to what I had lost; and I flattered myself, that the clerkship of the journals would fall fairly and easily within the scope of my abilities. Like a man in a fever, I thought a change of posture would relieve my pain; and, as the event will show, was equally disappointed. At length I carried my point; my friend, in this instance, preferring the gratification of my desires to his own interest; for nothing could be so likely to bring a suspicion of bargain and sale upon his nomination, which the Lords would not have endured, as his appointment of so near a relative to the least profitable office, while the most valuable was allotted to a stranger.

The matter being thus settled, something like a calm took place in my mind. I was, indeed, not a little concerned about my character; being aware, that it must needs suffer by the strange appearance of my proceeding. This, however, being but a small part of the anxiety I had laboured under, was hardly felt, when the rest was taken off. I thought my path to an easy maintenance was now plain and open, and for a day or two was tolerably cheerful. But, behold, the storm was gathering all the while; and the fury of it was not the less violent for this gleam of sunshine.

In the beginning, a strong opposition to my friend's right of nomination began to show itself. A powerful party was formed among the lords to thwart it, in favour of an old enemy of the family, though one much indebted to its bounty; and it appeared plain that, if we succeeded at last, it would only be by fighting our ground by inches. Every advantage, I was told, would be sought for, and eagerly seized, to disconcert us. I was bid to expect an examination at the bar of the house, touching my sufficiency for the post I had taken. Being necessarily ignorant of the nature of that business, it became expedient that I should visit the office daily, in order to qualify myself for the strictest scrutiny. All the horror of my fears and perplexities now returned. A thunderbolt would have been as welcome to me as this intelligence. I knew, to demonstration, that upon these terms the clerkship of the journals was no place for me. To require my attendance at the bar of the house, that I might there publicly entitle myself to the office, was, in effect, to exclude me from it. In the meantime, the interest of my friend, the honour of his choice, my own reputation and circumstances, all urged me forward; all pressed me to undertake that which I say to be impracticable. They whose spirits are formed like mine, to whom _a public exhibition of themselves, on any occasion, is mortal poison_, may have some idea of the horrors of my situation; others can have none.

My continual misery at length brought on a nervous fever: quiet forsook me by day, and peace by night; a finger raised against me was more than I could stand against. In this posture of mind, I attended regularly at the office; where, instead of a soul upon the rack, the the most active spirits were essentially necessary for my purpose. I expected no assistance from anybody there, all the inferior clerks being under the influence of my opponent; and accordingly I received none. The journal books were indeed thrown open to me, a thing which could not be refused; and from which, perhaps, a man in health, and with a head turned to business, might have gained all the information he wanted; but it was not so with me. I read without perception, and was so distressed, that, had every clerk in the office been my friend, it could have availed me little; for I was not in a condition to receive instruction, much less to elicit it out of manuscripts, without direction. Many months went over me thus employed; constant in the use of means, despairing as to the issue.

The feelings of a man when he arrives at the place of execution, are probably much like mine every time I set my foot in the office, which was every day for more than half a year together.

At length, the vacation being pretty far advanced, I made a shift to get into the country, and repaired to Margate. There, by the help of cheerful company, a new scene, and the intermission of my painful employment, I presently began to recover my spirits; though even here, for some time after my arrival (no-withstanding, perhaps, that the preceding day had been spent agreeably, and without any disturbing recollection of my circumstances), my first reflections, when I awoke in the morning, were horrible and full of wretchedness. I looked forward to the approaching winter, and regretted the flight of every moment which brought it nearer; like a man borne away by a rapid torrent into a stormy sea, whence he sees no possibility of returning, and where he knows he cannot subsist. At length, indeed, I acquired such a facility of turning away my thoughts from the ensuing crisis, that, for weeks together, I hardly adverted to it at all; but the stress of the tempest was yet to come, and was not to be avoided by any resolution of mine to look another way.

"How wonderful are the works of the Lord, and his ways past finding out!" Thus was he preparing me for an event which I least of all expected, even the reception of his blessed gospel, working by means which, in all human contemplation, must needs seem directly opposite to that purpose, but which, in his wise and gracious disposal, have, I trust, effectually accomplished it.

About the beginning of October, 1763, I was again required to attend the office and prepare for the push. This no sooner took place, than all my misery returned; again I visited the scene of ineffectual labours; again I felt myself pressed by necessity on either side, with nothing but despair in prospect. To this dilemma was I reduced, either to keep possession of the office to the last extremity, and by so doing expose myself to a public rejection for insufficiency (for the little knowledge I had acquired would have quite forsaken me at the bar of the house); or else to fling it up at once, and by this means run the hazard of ruining my benefactor's right of appointment, by bringing his discretion into question. In this situation, such a fit of passion has sometimes seized me, when alone in my chambers, that I have cried out aloud, and cursed the hour of my birth; lifting up my eyes to heaven, at the same time, not as a supplicant, but in the spirit of reproach against my Maker. A thought would sometime come across my mind, that my sins had perhaps brought this distress upon me, that the hand of divine vengeance was in it; but in the pride of my heart, I presently acquitted myself, and thereby implicitly charged God with injustice, saying, "What sins have I committed to deserve this?"

I saw plainly that God alone could deliver me; but was firmly persuaded that he would not, and therefore omitted to ask it. Indeed at _his_ hands, I would not; but as Saul sought to the witch, so did I to the physician, Dr. Heberden; and was as diligent in the use of drugs, as if they would have healed my wounded spirit, or have made the rough places plain before me. I made, indeed, one effort of a devotional kind; for, having found a prayer or two, I said them a few nights, but with so little expectation of prevailing that way, that I soon laid aside the book, and with it all thoughts of God and hopes of a remedy.

I now began to look upon madness as the only chance remaining. I had a strong kind of foreboding that so it would one day fare with me; and I wished for it earnestly, and looked forward to it with impatient expectation. My chief fear was, that my senses would not fail me time enough to excuse my appearance at the bar of the House of Lords, which was the only purpose I wanted it to answer. Accordingly, the day of decision drew near, and I was still in my senses; though in my heart I had formed many wishes, and by word of mouth expressed many expectations to the contrary.

Now came the grand temptation; the point to which Satan had all the while been driving me. I grew more sullen and reserved, fled from society, even from my most intimate friends, and shut myself up in my chambers. The ruin of my fortune, the contempt of my relations and acquaintance, the prejudice I should do to my patron, were all urged on me with irresistible energy. Being reconciled to the apprehension of madness, I began to be reconciled to the apprehension of death. Though formerly, in my happiest hours, I had never been able to glance a single thought that way, without shuddering at the idea of dissolution, I now wished for it, and found myself but little shocked at the idea of procuring it myself. I considered life as my property, and therefore at my own disposal. Men of great name, I observed, had destroyed themselves; and the world still retained the profoundest respect for their memories.

* * * * *

[An imperative sense of duty compels me to throw a veil over the afflicting details which follow. Respect for the known wishes of my departed brother-in-law, a desire not to wound the feelings of living characters, and a consciousness that such disclosures are not suited to meet the public eye, confirm me in this resolution. It may be said, the facts are accessible, and may be known; why make a mystery of communicating them? My answer is, I am a father; I will not inflict a shock on the youthful minds of my own children, neither will I be instrumental in conveying it to those of others. I will make such use of the Memoir as may answer the purpose I have in view, but I will not be the medium of revealing the secrets of the prison-house. It is sufficient to state that Cowper meditated the crime of self-destruction, and that he was arrested in his purpose by an Almighty arm. To quote his own emphatic words, "Unless my Eternal Father in Christ Jesus had interposed to disannul my covenant with death, and my agreement with hell, that I might hereafter be admitted into the covenant of mercy, I had by this time been the just object of his boundless vengeance."

All expectation of being able to hold the office in parliament being now at an end, he despatched a friend to his relative at the coffee-house.]

* * * * *

As soon, he observes, as the latter arrived, I apprised him of the attempt I had been making. His words were, "My dear Mr. Cowper, you terrify me; to be sure you cannot hold the office at this rate. Where is the deputation?" I gave him the key of the drawers where it was deposited; and, his business requiring his immediate attendance, he took it away with him; and thus ended all my connexion with the parliament house.

To this moment I had felt no concern of a spiritual kind. Ignorant of original sin, insensible of the guilt of actual transgression, I understood neither the law nor the gospel; the condemning nature of the one, nor the restoring mercies of the other. I was as much unacquainted with Christ, in all his saving offices, as if his blessed name had never reached me. Now, therefore, a new scene opened upon me. Conviction of sin took place, especially of that just committed; the meanness of it, as well as its atrocity, were exhibited to me in colours so inconceivably strong, that I despised myself, with a contempt not to be imagined or expressed, for having attempted it. This sense of it secured me from the repetition of a crime, which I could not now reflect on without abhorrence.

A sense of God's wrath, and a deep despair of escaping it, instantly succeeded. The fear of death became much more prevalent in me than ever the desire of it had been.

A frequent flashing, like that of fire, before my eyes, and an excessive pressure upon the brain, made me apprehensive of an apoplexy.

By the advice of my dear friend and benefactor, who called upon me again at noon, I sent for a physician, and told him the fact, and the stroke I apprehended. He assured me there was no danger of it, and advised me by all means to retire into the country. Being made easy in that particular, and not knowing where to better myself, I continued in my chambers, where the solitude of my situation left me at full liberty to attend to my spiritual state; a matter I had till this day never sufficiently thought of.

At this time I wrote to my brother, at Cambridge, to inform him of the distress I had been in, and the dreadful method I had taken to deliver myself from it; assuring him, as I faithfully might, that I had laid aside all such horrid intentions, and was desirous to live as long as it would please the Almighty to permit me.

My sins were now set in array against me, and I began to see and feel that I had lived without God in the world. As I walked to and fro in my chamber, I said within myself, "_There never was so abandoned a wretch, so great a sinner_." All my worldly sorrows seemed as though they had never been; the terrors which succeeded them seemed so great and so much more afflicting. One moment I thought myself shut out from mercy by one chapter; the next by another. The sword of the Spirit seemed to guard the tree of life from my touch, and to flame against me in every avenue by which I attempted to approach it. I particularly remember, that the parable of the barren fig-tree was to me an inconceivable source of anguish; and I applied it to myself, with a strong persuasion in my mind that, when the Saviour pronounced a curse upon it, he had me in his eye, and pointed that curse directly at me.

I turned over all Archbishop Tillotson's sermons, in hopes to find one upon the subject, and consulted my brother upon the true meaning of it; desirous, if possible, to obtain a different interpretation of the matter than my evil conscience would suffer me to fasten on it. "O Lord, thou didst vex me with all thy storms, all thy billows went over me; thou didst run upon me like a giant in the night season, thou didst scare me with visions in the night season."

In every book I opened, I found something that struck me to the heart. I remember taking up a volume of Beaumont and Fletcher, which lay upon the table in my kinsman's lodgings, and the first sentence which I saw was this: "The justice of the gods is in it." My heart instantly replied, "It is a truth;" and I cannot but observe, that as I found something in every author to condemn me, so it was the first sentence, in general, I pitched upon. Everything preached to me, and everything preached the curse of the law.

I was now strongly tempted to use laudanum, not as a poison, but as an opiate, to compose my spirits; to stupify my awakened and feeling mind, harassed with sleepless nights and days of uninterrupted misery. But God forbad it, who would have nothing to interfere with the quickening work he had begun in me; and neither the want of rest, nor continued agony of mind, could bring me to the use of it: I hated and abhorred the very smell of it.

Having an obscure notion about the efficacy of faith, I resolved upon an experiment to prove whether I had faith or not. For this purpose, I resolved to repeat the Creed: when I came to the second period of it, all traces of the former were struck out of my memory, nor could I recollect one syllable of the matter. While I endeavoured to recover it, and when just upon the point, I perceived a sensation in my brain, like a tremulous vibration in all the fibres of it. By this means I lost the words in the very instant when I thought to have laid hold of them. This threw me into an agony; but, growing a little calmer, I made an attempt for the third time; here again I failed in the same manner as before.

In this condition my brother found me, and the first words I spoke to him were, "Oh! brother, I am lost! think of eternity, and then think what it is to be lost!" I had, indeed, a sense of eternity impressed upon my mind, which seemed almost to amount to a full comprehension of it.

My brother, pierced to the heart with the sight of my misery, tried to comfort me, but all to no purpose. I refused comfort, and my mind appeared to me in such colours, that to administer it to me was only to exasperate me, and to mock my fears.

At length, I remembered my friend Martin Madan, and sent for him. I used to think him an enthusiast, but now seemed convinced that, if there was any balm in Gilead, he must administer it to me. On former occasions, when my spiritual concerns had at any time occurred to me, I thought likewise on the necessity of repentance. I knew that many persons had spoken of shedding tears for sin; but, when I asked myself, whether the time would ever come when I should weep for mine, it seemed to me that a stone might sooner do it.

Not knowing that Christ was exalted to give repentance, I despaired of ever attaining to it. My friend came to me; we sat on the bed-side together, and he began to declare to me the gospel. He spoke of original sin, and the corruption of every man born into the world, whereby every one is a child of wrath. I perceived something like hope dawning in my heart. This doctrine set me more on a level with the rest of mankind, and made my condition appear less desperate.

Next he insisted on the all-atoning efficacy of the blood of Jesus, and his righteousness, for our justification. While I heard this part of his discourse, and the scriptures on which he founded it, my heart began to burn within me, my soul was pierced with a sense of my bitter ingratitude to so merciful a Saviour; and those tears, which I thought impossible, burst forth freely. I saw clearly that my case required such a remedy, and had not the least doubt within me but that this was the gospel of salvation.

Lastly, he urged the necessity of a lively faith in Jesus Christ; not an assent only of the understanding, but a faith of application, an actually laying hold of it, and embracing it as a salvation wrought out for me personally. Here I failed, and deplored my want of such a faith. He told me it was the gift of God, which he trusted he would bestow upon me. I could only reply, "I wish he would:" a very irreverent petition;[753] but a very sincere one, and such as the blessed God, in his due time, was pleased to answer.

[753] It could hardly be called irreverent, unless the manner in which it was uttered rendered it such.

My brother, finding that I had received consolation from Mr. Madan, was very anxious that I should take the earliest opportunity of conversing with him again; and, for this purpose, pressed me to go to him immediately. I was for putting it off, but my brother seemed impatient of delay; and, at length, prevailed on me to set out. I mention this, to the honour of his candour and humanity; which would suffer no difference of sentiments to interfere with them. My welfare was his only object, and all prejudices fled before his zeal to procure it. May he receive, for his recompence, all that happiness the gospel, which I then first became acquainted with, is alone able to impart!

Easier, indeed, I was, but far from easy. The wounded spirit within me was less in pain, but by no means healed. What I had experienced was but the beginning of sorrows, and a long train of still greater terrors was at hand. I slept my three hours well, and then awoke with ten times a stronger alienation from God than ever.

At eleven o'clock my brother called upon me, and, in about an hour after his arrival, that distemper of mind, which I had so ardently wished for, actually seized me.

While I traversed the apartment, expecting every moment the earth would open her mouth and swallow me, my conscience scaring me, and the city of refuge out of reach and out of sight, a strange and horrible darkness fell upon me. If it were possible that a heavy blow could light on the brain, without touching the skull, such was the sensation I felt. I clapped my hand to my forehead, and cried aloud, through the pain it gave me. At every stroke my thoughts and expressions became more wild and incoherent; all that remained clear was the sense of sin, and the expectation of punishment. These kept undisturbed possession all through my illness, without interruption or abatement.

My brother instantly observed the change, and consulted with my friends on the best manner to dispose of me. It was agreed among them, that I should be carried to St. Alban's, where Dr. Cotton kept a house for the reception of such patients, and with whom I was known to have a slight acquaintance. Not only his skill as a physician recommended him to their choice, but his well-known humanity and sweetness of temper. It will be proper to draw a veil over the secrets of my prison-house: let it suffice to say, that the low state of body and mind to which I was reduced was perfectly well calculated to humble the natural vain-glory and pride of my heart.

These are the efficacious means which Infinite Wisdom thought meet to make use of for that purpose. A sense of self-loathing and abhorrence ran through all my insanity. Conviction of sin, and expectation of instant judgment, never left me, from the 7th of December 1763, until the middle of July following. The accuser of the brethren was ever busy with me night and day, bringing to my recollection in dreams the commission of long-forgotten sins, and charging upon my conscience things of an indifferent nature as atrocious crimes.

All that passed in this long interval of eight months may be classed under two heads, conviction of sin, and despair of mercy. But, blessed be the God of my salvation, for every sigh I drew, for every tear I shed; since thus it pleased him to judge me here, that I might not be judged hereafter.

After five months of continual expectation that the divine vengeance would overtake me, I became so familiar with despair as to have contracted a sort of hardiness and indifference as to the event. I began to persuade myself that, while the execution of the sentence was suspended, it would be for my interest to indulge a less horrible train of ideas than I had been accustomed to muse upon. By the means I entered into conversation with the doctor, laughed at his stories, and told him some of my own to match them; still, however, carrying a sentence of irrevocable doom in my heart.

He observed the seeming alteration with pleasure. Believing, as well he might, that my smiles were sincere, he thought my recovery well-nigh completed; but they were, in reality, like the green surface of a morass, pleasant to the eye, but a cover for nothing but rottenness and filth. _The only thing that could promote and effectuate my cure was yet wanting; an experimental knowledge of the redemption which is in Christ Jesus._

In about three months more (July 25, 1764) my brother came from Cambridge to visit me. Dr. C. having told him that he thought me greatly amended, he was rather disappointed at finding me almost as silent and reserved as ever; for the first sight of him struck me with many painful sensations both of sorrow for my own remediless condition and envy of his happiness.

As soon as we were left alone, he asked me how I found myself; I answered, "As much better as despair can make me." We went together into the garden. Here, on expressing a settled assurance of sudden judgment, he protested to me that it was all a delusion; and protested so strongly, that I could not help giving some attention to him. I burst into tears, and cried out, "If it be a delusion, then am I the happiest of beings." Something like a ray of hope was shot into my heart; but still I was afraid to indulge it. We dined together, and I spent the afternoon in a more cheerful manner. Something seemed to whisper to me every moment, "Still there is mercy."

Even after he left me, this change of sentiment gathered ground continually; yet my mind was in such a fluctuating state, that I can only call it a vague presage of better things at hand, without being able to assign a reason for it. The servant observed a sudden alteration in me for the better: and the man, whom I have ever since retained in my service,[754] expressed great joy on the occasion.

[754] Samuel Roberts.

I went to bed and slept well. In the morning, I dreamed that the sweetest boy I ever saw came dancing up to my bedside; he seemed just out of leading-strings, yet I took particular notice of the firmness and steadiness of his tread. The sight affected me with pleasure, and served at least to harmonize my spirits; so that I awoke for the first time with a sensation of delight on my mind. Still, however, I knew not where to look for the establishment of the comfort I felt; my joy was as much a mystery to myself as to those about me. The blessed God was preparing for me the clearer light of his countenance, by this first dawning of that light upon me.

Within a few days of my first arrival at St. Alban's, I had thrown aside the word of God, as a book in which I had no longer any interest or portion. The only instance, in which I can recollect reading a single chapter, was about two months before my recovery. Having found a Bible on the bench in the garden, I opened upon the 11th of St. John, where Lazarus is raised from the dead; and saw so much benevolence, mercy, goodness, and sympathy, with miserable man, in our Saviour's conduct, that I almost shed tears even after the relation; little thinking that it was an exact type of the mercy which Jesus was on the point of extending towards myself. I sighed, and said, "Oh, that I had not rejected so good a Redeemer, that I had not forfeited all his favours!" Thus was my heart softened, though not yet enlightened. I closed the book, without intending to open it again.

Having risen with somewhat of a more cheerful feeling, I repaired to my room, where breakfast waited for me. While I sat at table, I found the cloud of horror, which had so long hung over me, was every moment passing away; and every moment came fraught with hope. I was continually more and more persuaded that I was not utterly doomed to destruction. The way of salvation was still, however, hid from my eyes; nor did I see it at all clearer than before my illness. I only thought that, if it would please God to spare me, I would lead a better life; and that I would yet escape hell, if a religious observance of my duty would secure me from it.

_Thus may the terror of the Lord make a pharisee; but only the sweet voice of mercy in the gospel can make a Christian._

* * * * *

[We are now arrived at the eventful crisis of Cowper's conversion and restoration, which is thus recorded in his own words.]

But the happy period which was to shake off my fetters, and afford me a clear opening of the free mercy of God in Christ Jesus, was now arrived. I flung myself into a chair near the window, and, seeing a Bible there, ventured once more to apply to it for comfort and instruction. The first verse I saw was the 25th of the 3rd of Romans; "Whom God hath set forth to be a propitiation through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of God."

Immediately I received strength to believe it, and the full beams of the Sun of Righteousness shone upon me. I saw the sufficiency of the atonement he had made, my pardon sealed in his blood, and all the fulness and completeness of his justification. In a moment I believed, and received the gospel. Whatever my friend Madan had said to me, long before, revived in all its clearness, with demonstration of the Spirit and with power. Unless the Almighty arm had been under me, I think I should have died with gratitude and joy. My eyes filled with tears, and my voice choked with transport, I could only look up to heaven in silent fear, overwhelmed with love and wonder. But the work of the Holy Ghost is best described in his own words, it is "joy unspeakable, and full of glory." Thus was my heavenly Father in Christ Jesus pleased to give me the full assurance of faith, and out of a strong, stony, unbelieving heart, to raise up a child unto Abraham. How glad should I now have been to have spent every moment in prayer and thanksgiving!

I lost no opportunity of repairing to a throne of grace; but flew to it with an earnestness irresistible and never to be satisfied. Could I help it? Could I do otherwise than love and rejoice in my reconciled Father in Christ Jesus? The Lord had enlarged my heart, and I ran in the way of his commandments. For many succeeding weeks, tears were ready to flow, if I did but speak of the gospel, or mention the name of Jesus. To rejoice day and night was all my employment. Too happy to sleep much, I thought it was but lost time that was spent in slumber. O that the ardour of my first love had continued! But I have known many a lifeless and unhallowed hour since; long intervals of darkness, interrupted by short returns of peace and joy in believing.

My physician, ever watchful and apprehensive for my welfare, was now alarmed, lest the sudden transition from despair to joy should terminate in a fatal frenzy. But "the Lord was my strength and my song, and was become my salvation." I said, "I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord; he has chastened me sore, but not given me over unto death. O give thanks unto the Lord, for his mercy endureth for ever."

In a short time, Dr. C. became satisfied, and acquiesced in the soundness of my cure: and much sweet communion I had with him, concerning the things of our salvation. He visited me every morning while I stayed with him, which was near twelve months after my recovery, and the gospel was the delightful theme of our conversation.

No trial has befallen me since, but what might be expected in a state of warfare. Satan, indeed, has changed his battery. Before my conversion, sensual gratification was the weapon with which he sought to destroy me. Being naturally of an easy, quiet disposition, I was seldom tempted to anger; yet that passion it is which now gives me the most disturbance, and occasions the sharpest conflicts. But, Jesus being my strength, I fight against it; and if I am not conqueror, yet I am not overcome.

I now employed my brother to seek out an abode for me in the neighbourhood of Cambridge, being determined, by the Lord's leave, to see London, the scene of my former abominations, no more. I had still one place of preferment left, which seemed to bind me under the necessity of returning thither again. But I resolved to break the bond, chiefly because my peace of conscience was in question. I held, for some years, the office of commissioner of bankrupts, with about 60_l_. per annum. Conscious of my ignorance of the law, I could not take the accustomed oath, and resigned it; thereby releasing myself from an occasion of great sin, and every obligation to return to London. By this means, I reduced myself to an income scarcely sufficient for my maintenance; but I would rather have starved in reality than deliberately offend against my Saviour; and his great mercy has since raised me up such friends, as have enabled me to enjoy all the comforts and conveniences of life. I am well assured that, while I live, "bread shall be given me, and water shall be sure," according to his gracious promise.

After my brother had made many unsuccessful attempts to procure me a dwelling near him, I one day poured out my soul in prayer to God, beseeching him that, wherever he should be pleased, in his fatherly mercy, to lead me, it might be in the society of those who feared his name, and loved the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity; a prayer of which I have good reason to acknowledge his gracious acceptance.

In the beginning of June, 1765, I received a letter from my brother, to say, he had taken lodgings for me at Huntingdon, which he believed would suit me. Though it was sixteen miles from Cambridge, I was resolved to take them; for I had been two months in perfect health, and my circumstances required a less expensive way of life. It was with great reluctance, however, that I thought of leaving the place of my second nativity; I had so much leisure there to study the blessed word of God, and had enjoyed so much happiness; but God ordered everything for me like an indulgent Father, and had prepared a more comfortable place of residence than I could have chosen for myself.

On the 7th of June, 1765, having spent more than eighteen months at St. Alban's, partly in bondage, and partly in the liberty wherewith Christ had made me free, I took my leave of the place at four in the morning, and set out for Cambridge.

The servant, whom I lately mentioned as rejoicing in my recovery, attended me. He had maintained such an affectionate watchfulness over me during my whole illness, and waited on me with so much patience and gentleness, that I could not bear to leave him behind, though it was with some difficulty the Doctor was prevailed on to part with him. The strongest argument of all was the earnest desire he expressed to follow me. He seemed to have been providentially thrown in my way, having entered Dr. C.'s service just time enough to attend me; and I have strong ground to hope, that God will use me as an instrument to bring him to a knowledge of Jesus. It is impossible to say with how delightful a sense of his protection and fatherly care of me, it has pleased the Almighty to favour me, during the whole journey.

I remembered the pollution which is in the world, and the sad share I had in it myself; and my heart ached at the thought of entering it again. The blessed God had endued me with some concern for his glory, and I was fearful of hearing it traduced by oaths and blasphemies, the common language of this highly favoured, but ungrateful country.[755] But "fear not, I am with thee," was my comfort. I passed the whole journey in silent communion with God; and those hours are amongst the happiest I have known.

[755] There is a considerable improvement in public manners since this period, and oaths and blasphemies would not be tolerated in well-bred society. May the hallowed influence of the Gospel be instrumental in producing a still happier change!

I repaired to Huntingdon the Saturday after my arrival at Cambridge. My brother, who had attended me thither, had no sooner left me than, finding myself surrounded by strangers and in a strange place, my spirits began to sink, and I felt (such were the backslidings of my heart) like a traveller in the midst of an inhospitable desert, without a friend to comfort or a guide to direct me. I walked forth, towards the close of the day, in this melancholy frame of mind, and, having wandered about a mile from the town, I found my heart, at length, so powerfully drawn towards the Lord, that, having gained a retired and secret nook in the corner of a field, I kneeled down under a bank, and poured forth my complaints before him. It pleased my Saviour to hear me, in that this oppression was taken off, and I was enabled to trust in him that careth for the stranger, to roll my burden upon him, and to rest assured that, wheresoever he might cast my lot, the God of all consolation would still be with me. But this was not all. He did for me more than either I had asked or thought.

The next day, I went to church for the first time after my recovery. Throughout the whole service, I had much to do to restrain my emotions, so fully did I see the beauty and the glory of the Lord. My heart was full of love to all the congregation, especially to them in whom I observed an air of sober attention. A grave and sober person sat in the pew with me; him I have since seen and often conversed with, and have found him a pious man, and a true servant of the blessed Redeemer. While he was singing the psalm, I looked at him, and, observing him intent on his holy employment, I could not help saying in my heart, with much emotion, "Bless you, for praising Him whom my soul loveth!"

Such was the goodness of the Lord to me, that he gave me "the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;" and though my voice was silent, being stopped by the intenseness of what I felt, yet my soul sung within me, and even leaped for joy. And when the gospel for the day was read, the sound of it was more than I could well support. Oh, what a word is the word of God, when the Spirit quickens us to receive it, and gives the hearing ear, and the understanding heart! The harmony of heaven is in it, and discovers its author. The parable of the prodigal son was the portion. I saw myself in that glass so clearly, and the loving-kindness of my slighted and forgotten Lord, that the whole scene was realized to me, and acted over in my heart.

I went immediately after church to the place where I had prayed the day before, and found the relief I had there received was but the earnest of a richer blessing. How shall I express what the Lord did for me, except by saying, that he made all his goodness to pass before me! I seemed to speak to him face to face, as a man conversing with his friend, except that my speech was only in tears of joy, and groanings which cannot be uttered. I could say, indeed, with Jacob, not "how dreadful," but how lovely, "is this place! This is none other than the house of God."

Four months I continued in my lodging. Some few of the neighbours came to see me, but their visits were not very frequent; and, in general, I had but little intercourse, except with my God in Christ Jesus. It was he who made my solitude sweet, and the wilderness to bloom and blossom as the rose; and my meditation of him was so delightful that, if I had few other comforts, neither did I want any.

One day, however, towards the expiration of this period, I found myself in a state of desertion. That communion which I had so long been able to maintain with the Lord was suddenly interrupted. I began to dislike my solitary situation, and to fear I should never be able to weather out the winter in so lonely a dwelling. Suddenly a thought struck me, which I shall not fear to call a suggestion of the good providence which had brought me to Huntingdon. A few months before, I had formed an acquaintance with the Rev. Mr. Unwin's family. His son, though he had heard that I rather declined society than sought it, and though Mrs. Unwin herself dissuaded him from visiting me on that account, was yet so strongly inclined to it, that, notwithstanding all objections and arguments to the contrary, he one day engaged himself, as we were coming out of church, after morning prayers, to drink tea with me that afternoon. To my inexpressible joy, I found him one whose notions of religion were spiritual and lively; one whom the Lord had been training up from his infancy for the service of the temple. We opened our hearts to each other at the first interview, and, when we parted, I immediately retired to my chamber, and prayed the Lord, who had been the author, to be the guardian of our friendship, and to grant to it fervency and perpetuity, even unto death: and I doubt not that my gracious Father heard this prayer also.

The Sunday following I dined with him. That afternoon, while the rest of the family was withdrawn, I had much discourse with Mrs. Unwin. I am not at liberty to describe the pleasure I had in conversing with her, because she will be one of the first who will have the perusal of this narrative. Let it suffice to say, I found we had one faith, and had been baptized with the same baptism.

When I returned home, I gave thanks to God, who had so graciously answered my prayers, by bringing me into the society of Christians. She has since been a means in the hand of God of supporting, quickening, and strengthening me, in my walk with him. It was long before I thought of any other connexion with this family, than as a friend and neighbour. On the day, however, above mentioned, while I was revolving in my mind the nature of my situation, and beginning, for the first time, to find an irksomeness in such retirement, suddenly it occurred to me, that I might probably find a place in Mr. Unwin's family as a boarder. A young gentleman, who had lived with him as a pupil, was the day before gone to Cambridge. It appeared to me, at least, possible, that I might be allowed to succeed him. From the moment this thought struck me, such a tumult of anxious solicitude seized me, that for two or three days I could not divert my mind to any other subject. I blamed and condemned myself for want of submission to the Lord's will; but still the language of my mutinous and disobedient heart was, "Give me the blessing, or else I die."

About the third evening after I had determined upon this measure, I, at length, made shift to fasten my thoughts upon a theme which had no manner of connexion with it. While I was pursuing my meditations, Mr. Unwin and family quite out of sight, my attention was suddenly called home again by the words which had been continually playing in my mind, and were, at length, repeated with such importunity that I could not help regarding them:--"The Lord God of truth will do this." I was effectually convinced, that they were not of my own production, and accordingly I received from them some assurance of success; but my unbelief and fearfulness robbed me of much of the comfort they were intended to convey; though I have since had many a blessed experience of the same kind, for which I can never be sufficiently thankful. I immediately began to negotiate the affair, and in a few days it was entirely concluded.

I took possession of my new abode, Nov. 11, 1765. I have found it a place of rest prepared for me by God's own hand, where he has blessed me with a thousand mercies, and instances of his fatherly protection; and where he has given me abundant means of furtherance in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus, both by the study of his own word, and communion with his dear disciples. May nothing but death interrupt our union!

Peace be with the reader, through faith in our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen!

* * * * *

Painful as this memoir is in some of its earlier details, yet we know nothing more simple and beautiful in narrative, more touching and ingenuous in sentiment, than its happy sequel and consummation. It resembles the storm that desolates the plain, but which is afterwards succeeded by the glowing beauties of the renovated landscape. No document ever furnished an ampler refutation of the remark that ascribes his malady to the operation of religious causes. On the contrary, it appears that his first relief, under the tyranny of an unfeeling school-boy, was in the exercise of prayer, and that some of his happiest moments, in the enjoyment of the Divine presence, were experienced in the frame of mind which he describes, when at Southampton--that in proportion as he forgot the heavenly Monitor, his peace vanished, his passions resumed the ascendency, and he presented an unhappy compound of guilt and wretchedness. The history of his malady is developed in his own memoir with all the clearness of the most circumstantial evidence. A morbid temperament laid the foundation; an extreme susceptibility exposed him to continual nervous irritation; and early disappointments deepened the impression. At length, with a mind unoccupied by study, and undisciplined by self-command--contemplating a "public exhibition of himself as mortal poison," he sank under an offer which a more buoyant spirit would have grasped as an object of honourable ambition. In this state religion found him, and administered the happy cure.

That a morbid temperament was the originating cause of his depression is confirmed by an affecting passage in one of his poems.

In the beautiful and much admired lines on his mother's picture, there is the following pathetic remark:

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, _Wretch even then, life's journey just begun_?

In dwelling on these predisposing causes, the Editor thinks it right to state, in the most unequivocal manner, that there is not the remotest reason for supposing that any hereditary malady existed in the family of Cowper sufficient to account for this afflicting dispensation. There was an inflammatory action of his blood, and peculiar irritability of the nervous system, which a wise and salutary self-control and the early influence of religious principles might have subdued, or at least modified. Employment, also, or the active exercise of the faculties, seems indispensable to health and happiness.[756] He who lives without an allotted occupation is seldom either wise, virtuous, or happy. The mind recoils upon itself, and is consumed by its own fires. Providence, after the Fall, in mercy, not less than in justice, decreed that man should live by the sweat of his brow; that, in the same moment that he was reminded of his punishment, he might find the toil itself a powerful alleviation to his sufferings, and the exercise of all his faculties the road to competency, to usefulness, and honour.

[756] Cowper adopted a profession, but never pursued it with perseverance.

Two events contributed to exercise a most injurious influence on the morbid mind of Cowper, not recorded in his own Memoir. We allude to the death of his friend Sir William Russel, and his hopeless attachment to Miss Theodora Cowper.

Sir William was the contemporary of Cowper at Westminster, and his most intimate friend. This intercourse was continued in their riper years, on the footing of the most endearing friendship. Unhappily, young Russel was cut off by a premature death,[757] while bathing in the Thames, amidst all the opening prospects of life, and with accomplishments and virtues that adorned his rank and station. This occurrence inflicted a great moral shock on the sensitive mind of Cowper.

[757] Shortness of life seems to have been peculiar to this family. The writer well remembers the two last baronets, viz. Sir John Russel, whose form was so weak and fragile, that, when resident at the University of Oxford, he was supported by instruments of steel. He died at the early age of twenty-one. 2ndly. Sir George Russel, his brother, who survived only till his twenty-second year. The editor followed him to his grave. The family residence was at Chequers, in Buckinghamshire, an ancient seat, and restored at great expense by these last direct descendants of their race. Chequers was formerly noted as the place where Hampden, Cromwell, and a few others, held their secret meetings, and concerted their measures of opposition against the government of Charles I. The estate afterwards devolved to Robert Greenhill, Esq.

But it was his attachment to Miss Theodora Jane Cowper that formed the eventful era in his early life, and clouded all his future prospects. The relation of this fact is wholly omitted by Hayley, in compliance, we presume, with the express wishes of the family. It was, indeed, understood to be a prohibited subject, and involved in much mystery. The name of this lady was never uttered by Cowper, nor mentioned in his presence; and, after his death, delicacy towards the survivor equally imposed the duty of silence. The brother-in-law of the Editor, the Rev. Dr. Johnson, conscious that a correspondence must have existed between the poet and the fair object of his attachment, requested to know whether he could be furnished with any documents, and permitted without a violation of delicacy to lay them before the public. The writer was also commissioned by him to solicit an interview, and to urge the same request, but without success. An intimation was at length conveyed that no documents could see the light till after the decease of the owner. The death of this lady, in the year 1824, at a very advanced age, removed the veil of secrecy, though the leading facts were known by a small circle of friends, through the confidential communications of Lady Hesketh and Dr. Johnson. We now proceed to the details of this transaction. Miss Theodora Cowper was the second daughter of Ashley Cowper, Esq., the poet's uncle, and sister to Lady Hesketh; she was, consequently, own cousin to Cowper. She is described as having been a young lady possessed of great personal attractions, highly accomplished, and distinguished by the qualities that engage affection and regard. It is no wonder that a person of Cowper's susceptibility yielded to so powerful an influence. She soon became the theme of his poetical effusions, which have since been communicated to the public.[758] They are juvenile compositions, but interesting, as forming the earliest productions of his muse, and recording his attachment to his cousin. Miss Theodora Cowper was by no means insensible to the regards of her admirer, and the father was eventually solicited to ratify her choice. But Mr. Ashley Cowper, attached as he was to his nephew, and anxious to promote the happiness of his daughter, could by no means be induced to listen to the proposition. His objections were founded, first, on the near degree of relationship in which they stood to each other; and secondly, on the inadequacy of Cowper's fortune. From this resolution no entreaty could induce him to depart. The poet therefore was compelled to cherish a hopeless passion, which no lapse of time was capable of effacing; and his fair cousin, on her part, discovered a corresponding fidelity.

[758] Poems, the Early Productions of William Cowper.

The subsequent melancholy event, recorded in the Memoir, at once extinguished all further hopes on the subject.

How powerfully his feelings were affected by the death of his friend, Sir William, and by his disappointment in love, may be seen by the following pathetic lines, referring to Miss Theodora Cowper:--

Doom'd as I am, in solitude to waste The present moments, and regret the past; Depriv'd of every joy I valued most, My friend torn from me and my mistress lost; 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! O prone to pity, generous, and sincere, Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear; Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes; See me--ere yet my destin'd course half done, Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown! See me neglected on the world's rude coast, Each dear companion of my voyage lost!

Such were the preparatory causes that weakened and depressed the mind of Cowper. _The immediate and exciting cause_ of his unhappy derangement has already been faithfully disclosed, as well as the occasion that ministered to its cure.

Pursuing this interesting and yet painful subject in the order of events, it appears that, after spending nearly ten years in the enjoyment of much inward peace, he was visited in the year 1773, at Olney, with a return, not of his original derangement, but with a severe nervous fever, and a settled depression of spirits. This attack began to subside at the close of the year 1776, though his full powers were not recovered till some time after. What he suffered is feelingly expressed in a letter to Mr. Hill. "Other distempers only batter the walls; but _they_ (nervous fevers) creep silently into the citadel, and put the garrison to the sword."[759]

[759] See p. 36.

The death of his brother, the Rev. John Cowper, may have been instrumental to this long indisposition. At the same time we think that his situation at Olney was by no means favourable to his health; and that more time should have been allotted for relaxation and exercise.

In January, 1787, he experienced a fresh attack, though surrounded by the beautiful scenery of Weston; which seems to prove that local causes were not so influential as some have suggested. A much better reason may be assigned in the lamented death of his endeared friend, Mr. Unwin. This illness continued eight months, and greatly enfeebled his health and spirits. "This last tempest," he remarks, in a letter to Mr. Newton, "has left my nerves in a worse condition than it found them; my head, especially, though better informed, is more infirm than ever."[760] In December 1791, Mrs. Unwin experienced her first attack; and in May 1792, it was renewed with aggravated symptoms, during Hayley's visit to Weston. He describes its powerful effect on Cowper's nerves in expressive language, and none can be more expressive than his own, at the close of the same year. "The year ninety-two shall stand chronicled in my remembrance as the most melancholy that I have ever known, except the few weeks that I spent at Eartham."[761] Cowper's mental depression kept pace with the spectacle of her increasing imbecility, till at length, yielding to the pressure of these accumulating sorrows, he sank under the violence of the shock.

[760] See p. 264.

[761] See Letter, Dec. 26, 1729.

The coincidence of these facts is worthy of observation, as they seem to prove that the embers of the original constitutional malady never became extinct, and required only some powerful stimulant to revive the flame. Religious feelings unquestionably concurred, because whatever predominates in the mind furnishes the materials of excitement; but it was not the religion of a creed, for what creed ever proclaimed the delusion under which Cowper laboured.[762] His persuasion was in opposition to his creed, for he knew that he was once saved, and yet believed that he should be lost, though his creed assured him that, where divine grace had once revealed its saving power, it never failed to perfect its work in mercy--that the Saviour's love is unchangeable, and that whom he hath loved he loveth unto the end (John xiii. 1). His case, therefore, was an exception to his creed, and consequently must be imputed to the operation of other causes.

[762] Cowper believed that he had incurred the Divine displeasure, because he did not commit the crime of self-destruction; a persuasion so manifestly absurd as to afford undeniable proof of derangement.

We trust we have now succeeded in tracing to its true source the origin of Cowper's malady, and that the numerous facts which have been urged must preclude the possibility of future misconception.

There are some distinguishing features in this mysterious malady which are too extraordinary not to be specified. We notice the following:--

1st. The free exercise of his mental powers continued during the whole period of his depression, with the exception of two intervals, from 1773 to 1776, and a season of eight months in the year 1787. With these intermissions of study, all his works were written in moments of depression and unceasing nervous excitement.

It still further shows the singular mechanism of his wonderful mind, that his Montes Glaciales, or Ice Islands, exhibiting decided marks of vigour of genius, were composed in the last stage of his malady--within five weeks of his decease--when his heart was lacerated by sorrow, his imagination scared by dreams, and the heavens over his head were as brass. The public papers had announced a phenomenon, which the voyages of Captains Ross and Parry have now made more familiar, viz., the disruption of immense masses of ice in the North Pole, and their appearance in the German Ocean. Cowper seized this incident as a fit subject for his poetic powers, and produced the poem from which we make the following extract:--

What portents, from what distant region, ride, Unseen till now in ours, th' astonish'd tide?-- What view we now? more wondrous still! Behold! Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold; And all around the pearl's pure splendour show, And all around the ruby's fiery glow. Come they from India, where the burning earth, All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth; And where the costly gems, that beam around The brows of mightiest potentates, are found? No. Never such a countless, dazzling store Had left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore-- Whence sprang they then? ----Far hence, where most severe Bleak Winter well-nigh saddens all the year, Their infant growth began. He bade arise Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. Oft, as dissolv'd by transient suns, the snow Left the tall cliff to join the flood below, He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile And long successive ages roll'd the while, Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand Tall as its rival mountains on the land. Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill Or force of man, had stood the structure still; But that, though firmly fixt, supplanted yet By pressure of its own enormous weight, It left the shelving beach--and, with a sound That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around, Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, As if instinct with strong desire to lave, Down went the pond'rous mass.

See Poems.

2ndly. His malady, however oppressive to himself, was not perceptible to others.

The Editor is enabled to state this remarkable fact on the authority of Dr. Johnson, confirmed by the testimony of Lady Throckmorton, and John Higgins, Esq., of Turvey Abbey, formerly of Weston.

There was nothing in his general manner, or intercourse with society, to excite the suspicion of the wretchedness that dwelt within. Among strangers he was at all times reserved and silent, but in the circle of familiar friends, where restraint was banished, not only did he exhibit no marks of gloom, but he could participate in the mirth of others, or inspire it from his own fertile resources of wit and humour. The prismatic colours, so to speak, were discernible through the descending shower. The bow in the heavens was not only emblematic of his imagination, but might be interpreted as the pledge of promised mercy. For it seemed to be graciously ordered that his lively and sportive imagination should be a relief to the gloomy forebodings of his mind; and that, in vouchsafing to him this alleviation, God proclaimed, "Behold, I do set my bow in the cloud, it shall be for a covenant between me and thee."

3rdly. The rare union, in the same mind, of a rich vein of humour with a spirit of profound melancholy was never perhaps so strikingly exemplified as in the celebrated production of John Gilpin. The town resounded with its praises. Henderson recited it to overflowing auditories; Mr. Henry Thornton addressed it to a large party of friends at Mr. Newton's. Laughter might be said to hold both his sides, and the gravest were compelled to acknowledge the power of comic wit. We scarcely know a more extraordinary phenomenon than what is furnished by the history of this performance. For it appears, by the author's own testimony, that it was written "in the saddest mood, and but for that saddest mood, perhaps, had never been written at all."[763] It is also known that this depression was not incidental or temporary, but a fixed and settled feeling; that he was in fact absorbed, for the most part, in the profoundest melancholy; that he considered himself to be cut off from the mercy of his God, though his life was blameless and without reproach; and that, finally, having enlightened his country with strains of the sublimest morality, he died the victim of an incurable despair. As a contrast to the inimitable humour of John Gilpin, let us now turn to that most affecting representation which the poet draws of his own mental sufferings, occasioned by the painful depression which has been the subject of so many remarks.

[763] See p. 122.

Look where he comes--in this embowered alcove Stand close concealed, and see a statue move; Lips busy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow, Arms hanging idly down, hands clasped below, Interpret to the marking eye distress, Such as its symptoms can alone express. That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue Could argue once, could jest or join the song, Could give advice, could censure or commend, Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. Renounced alike its office and its sport, Its brisker and its graver strains fall short; Both fail beneath _a fever's secret sway_, And like a summer-brook are past away. This is a sight for pity to peruse, Till she resemble faintly what she views; Till sympathy contract a kindred pain, Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain. This, of all maladies that man infest, Claims most compassion, and receives the least.

_See Poem on Retirement._

The minute and mournful delineation of mental trouble here submitted to the eye of the reader, and the fact of this living image of woe being a portrait of Cowper drawn by his own hand, impart to it a character of inimitable pathos, and of singular and indescribable interest.

The physical and moral solution of this evil, and its painful influence on the mind, till the cure is administered by an almighty Physician, are beautifully and affectingly described.

Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, Each yielding harmony, disposed aright; The screws reversed (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 power and use. Then neither healthy wilds, nor scenes as fair As ever recompensed the peasant's care, Nor soft declivities, with tufted hills, Nor view of waters turning busy mills, Parks in which art preceptress nature weds, Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds, Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming groves, And waft it to the mourner as he roves-- Can call up life into his faded eye, That passes all he sees unheeded by: No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals.

_Retirement._

The lines which follow are important, as proving by his own testimony that, so far from his religious views being the occasion of his wretchedness, it was to this source alone that he looked for consolation and support.

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 his chastening hand: To thee the day-spring and the blaze of noon, The purple evening and resplendent moon, The stars, that, sprinkled o'er the vault of night, Seem drops descending in a shower of light, Shine not, or undesired and hated shine, Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine: Yet seek Him, in his favour life is found, All bliss beside, a shadow or a sound: Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull earth, Shall seem to start into a second birth! Nature, assuming a more lovely face, Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace, Shall be despised and overlooked no more, Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before, Impart to things inanimate a voice, And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice; The sound shall run along the winding vales, And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails.

_Retirement._

The Editor has entered thus largely into the consideration of Cowper's depressive malady, because it has been least understood, and subject to the most erroneous misrepresentations, affecting the character of Cowper and the honour of religion. One leading object of the writer's, in engaging in the present undertaking, has been to vindicate both from so injurious an imputation.

* * * * *

We have now to lay before the reader another most interesting document, of which Cowper is the acknowledged author. It contains the affecting account of the last illness and peaceful end of his brother, the Rev. John Cowper, Fellow of Bennet College, Cambridge. The original manuscript was faithfully transcribed by Newton, and then published with a preface, which we have thought proper to retain. It cannot fail to be read with deep interest and edification; and, while it is a monument of Cowper's pious zeal and fraternal love, it is a striking record of the power of divine grace in producing that great change of heart which we deem to be essential to every professing Christian. This document is now extremely scarce, and not accessible but through private sources.[764]

[764] We are indebted for this copy to a much esteemed and highly valued friend, the Rev. Charles Bridges.

ADELPHI.

A SKETCH OF THE CHARACTER, AND AN ACCOUNT OF THE LAST ILLNESS,

OF THE LATE

REV. JOHN COWPER, A.M.

FELLOW OF BENNET COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE,

WHO FINISHED HIS COURSE WITH JOY, 20TH MARCH, 1770.

WRITTEN BY HIS BROTHER,

THE LATE WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.

OF THE INNER TEMPLE, AUTHOR OF "THE TASK," ETC.

FAITHFULLY TRANSCRIBED FROM HIS ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT,

BY JOHN NEWTON,

RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH, AND ST. MARY, WOOLCHURCH.

Tu supplicanti protinus admoves Aurem, benignus: pro lachrimis mihi Risum reducis, pro dolore Lætitiamque, alacremque plausum.

BUCHANAN, Ps. xxx.

NEWTON'S ORIGINAL PREFACE.

The Editor's motives, which induce him to publish the following narrative, are chiefly two.

First, that so striking a display of the power and mercy of God may be more generally known, to the praise and glory of his grace and the instruction and comfort of his people.

Secondly, the boasted spirit of refinement, the stress laid upon unassisted human reason, and the consequent scepticism to which they lead, and which so strongly mark the character of the present times, are not now confined merely to the dupes of infidelity; but many persons are under their influence, who would be much offended if we charged them with having renounced Christianity. While no theory is admitted in natural history, which is not confirmed by actual and positive experiment, religion is the only thing to which a trial by this test is refused. The very name of vital experimental religion excites contempt and scorn, and provokes resentment. The doctrines of regeneration by the powerful operation of the Holy Spirit, and the necessity of his continual agency and influence to advance the holiness and comforts of those in whose hearts he has already begun a work of grace, are not only exploded and contradicted by many who profess a regard for the Bible, and by some who have subscribed to the articles and liturgy of our established church, but they who avow an attachment to them are, upon that account, and that account only, considered as hypocrites or visionaries, knaves or fools.

The Editor fears that many unstable persons are misled and perverted by the fine words and fair speeches of those who lie in wait to deceive. But he likewise hopes that, by the blessing of God, a candid perusal of what is here published, respecting the character, sentiments, and happy death of the late Reverend John Cowper, may convince them, some of them at least, of their mistake, and break the snare in which they have been entangled.

JOHN NEWTON.

A SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE REV. JOHN COWPER, A.M.

As soon as it had pleased God, after a long and sharp season of conviction, to visit me with the consolations of his grace, it became one of my chief concerns, that my relations might be made partakers of the same mercy. In the first letter I wrote to my brother,[765] I took occasion to declare what God had done for my soul, and am not conscious that from that period down to his last illness I wilfully neglected an opportunity of engaging him, if it were possible, in conversation of a spiritual kind. When I left St. Alban's, and went to visit him at Cambridge, my heart being full of the subject, I poured it out before him without reserve; and, in all my subsequent dealings with him, so far as I was enabled, took care to show that I had received, not merely a set of notions, but a real impression of the truths of the gospel.

[765]

"... I had a brother once," &c.

_The Task_, book ii.

At first I found him ready enough to talk with me upon these subjects; sometimes he would dispute, but always without heat or animosity; and sometimes would endeavour to reconcile the difference of our sentiments, by supposing that, at the bottom, we were both of a mind and meant the same thing.

He was a man of a most candid and ingenuous spirit; his temper remarkably sweet, and in his behaviour to me he had always manifested an uncommon affection. His outward conduct, so far as it fell under my notice, or I could learn it by the report of others, was perfectly decent and unblameable. There was nothing vicious in any part of his practice; but, being of a studious, thoughtful turn, he placed his chief delight in the acquisition of learning, 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. These attainments, however, and many others in the literary way, he lived heartily to despise, not as useless when sanctified and employed in the service of God, but when sought after for their own sake, and with a view to the praise of men. Learned however as he was, he was easy and cheerful in his conversation, and entirely free from the stiffness which is generally contracted by men devoted to such pursuits.

Thus we spent about two years, conversing as occasion offered, and we generally visited each other once or twice a week, as long as I continued at Huntingdon, upon the leading truths of the gospel. By this time, however, he began to be more reserved; he would hear me patiently but never reply; and this I found, upon his own confession afterward, was the effect of a resolution he had taken, in order to avoid disputes, and to secure the continuance of that peace which had always subsisted between us. When our family removed to Olney, our intercourse became less frequent. We exchanged an annual visit, and, whenever he came amongst us, he observed the same conduct, conforming to all our customs, attending family worship with us, and heard the preaching, received civilly whatever passed in conversation upon the subject, but adhered strictly to the rule he had prescribed to himself, never remarking upon or objecting to any thing he heard or saw. This, through the goodness of his natural temper, he was enabled to carry so far that, though some things unavoidably happened which we feared would give him offence, he never took any; for it was not possible to offer him the pulpit, nor when Mr. Newton was with us once at the time of family prayer, could we ask my brother to officiate, though, being himself a minister, and one of our own family for the time, the office seemed naturally to fall into his hands.

In September 1769, I learned by letters from Cambridge that he was dangerously ill. I set out for that place the day after I received them, and found him as ill as I expected. He had taken cold on his return from a journey into Wales; and, lest he should be laid up at a distance from home, had pushed forward as far as he could from Bath with a fever upon him. Soon after his arrival at Cambridge he discharged, unknown to himself, such a prodigious quantity of blood, that the physician ascribed it only to the strength of his constitution that he was still alive; and assured me, that if the discharge should be repeated, he must inevitably die upon the spot. In this state of imminent danger, he seemed to have no more concern about his spiritual interests than when in perfect health. His couch was strewed with volumes of plays, to which he had frequent recourse for amusement. I learned indeed afterwards, that, even at this time, the thoughts of God and eternity would often force themselves upon his mind; but, not apprehending his life to be in danger, and trusting in the morality of his past conduct, he found it no difficult matter to thrust them out again.

As it pleased God that he had no relapse, he presently began to recover strength, and in ten days' time I left him so far restored, that he could ride many miles without fatigue, and had every symptom of returning health. It is probable, however, that though his recovery seemed perfect, this illness was the means which God had appointed to bring down his strength in the midst of his journey, and to hasten on the malady which proved his last.

On the 16th of February, 1770, I was again summoned to attend him, by letters which represented him as so ill that the physician entertained but little hopes of his recovery. I found him afflicted with asthma and dropsy, supposed to be the effect of an imposthume in his liver. He was, however, cheerful when I first arrived, expressed great joy at seeing me, thought himself much better than he had been, and seemed to flatter himself with hopes that he should be well again. My situation at this time was truly distressful. I learned from the physician, that, in this instance as in the last, he was in much greater danger than he suspected. He did not seem to lay his illness at all to heart, nor could I find by his conversation that he had one serious thought. As often as a suitable occasion offered, when we were free from company and interruption, I endeavoured to give a spiritual turn to the discourse; and, the day after my arrival, asked his permission to pray with him, to which he readily consented. I renewed my attempts in this way as often as I could, though without any apparent success: still he seemed as careless and unconcerned as ever; yet I could not but consider his willingness in this instance as a token for good, and observed with pleasure, that though at other times he discovered no mark of seriousness, yet when I spoke to him of the Lord's dealings with myself, he received what I said with affection, would press my hand, and look kindly at me, and seemed to love me the better for it.

On the 21st of the same month he had a violent fit of the asthma, which seized him when he rose, about an hour before noon, and lasted all the day. His agony was dreadful. Having never seen any person afflicted in the same way, I could not help fearing that he would be suffocated; nor was the physician himself without fears of the same kind. This day the Lord was very present with me, and enabled me, as I sat by the poor sufferer's side, to wrestle for a blessing upon him. I observed to him, that though it had pleased God to visit him with great afflictions, yet mercy was mingled with the dispensation. I said, "You have many friends, who love you, and are willing to do all they can to serve you; and so perhaps have others in the like circumstances; but it is not the lot of every sick man, how much soever he may be beloved, to have a friend that can pray for him." He replied, "That is true, and I hope God will have mercy upon me." His love for me from this time became very remarkable; there was a tenderness in it more than was merely natural; and he generally expressed it by calling for blessings upon me in the most affectionate terms, and with a look and manner not to be described. At night, when he was quite worn out with the fatigue of labouring for breath, and could get no rest, his asthma still continuing, he turned to me and said, with a melancholy air, "Brother, I seem to be marked out for misery; you know some people are so." That moment I felt my heart enlarged, and such a persuasion of the love of God towards him was wrought in my soul, that I replied with confidence, and, as if I had authority given me to say it, "But that is not your case; you are marked out for mercy." Through the whole of this most painful dispensation, he was blessed with a degree of patience and resignation to the will of God, not always seen in the behaviour of established Christians under sufferings so great as his. I never heard a murmuring word escape him; on the contrary, he would often say, when his pains were most acute, "I only wish it may please God to enable me to suffer without complaining; I have no right to complain." Once he said, with a loud voice, "Let thy rod and thy staff support and comfort me:" and "Oh that it were with me as in times past, when the candle of the Lord shone upon my tabernacle!" One evening, when I had been expressing my hope that the Lord would show him mercy, he replied, "I hope he will; I am sure I pretend to nothing." Many times he spoke of himself in terms of the greatest self-abasement, which I cannot now particularly remember. I thought I could discern, in these expressions, the glimpses of approaching day, and have no doubt at present but that the Spirit of God was gradually preparing him, in a way of true humiliation, for that bright display of gospel-grace which he was soon after pleased to afford him.[766]

[766] There is a beautiful illustration of this sudden and happy change, in Cowper's poem entitled "Hope."

"As when a felon whom his country's laws," &c.

On Saturday the 10th of March, about three in the afternoon, he suddenly burst into tears, and said with a loud cry, "Oh, forsake me not!" I went to his bed-side, when he grasped my hand, and presently, by his eyes and countenance, I found that he was in prayer. Then turning to me he said, "Oh brother, I am full of what I could say to you." The nurse asked him if he would have any hartshorn or lavender. He replied, "None of these things will serve my purpose." I said, "But I know what would, my dear, don't I?" He answered, "You do, brother."

Having continued some time silent, he said, "Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth,"--then, after a pause, "Ay, and he is able to do it too."

I left him for about an hour, fearing lest he should fatigue himself with talking, and because my surprise and joy were so great that I could hardly bear them. When I returned, he threw his arms about my neck, and, leaning his head against mine, he said, "Brother, if I live, you and I shall be more like one another than we have been. But whether I live or live not, all is well, and will be so; I know it will; I have felt that which I never felt before; and am sure that God has visited me with this sickness to teach me what I was too proud to learn in health. I never had satisfaction till now. The doctrines I had been used to referred me to myself for the foundation of my hopes, and there I could find nothing to rest upon. The sheet-anchor of the soul was wanting. I thought you wrong, yet wished to believe as you