Page images
PDF
EPUB

ΤΟ

R. D. ALEXANDER, ESQ. F. L. S.

THE STEADY, DETERMINED, AND PERSEVERING FRIEND OF HUMANITY,

THIS LIFE

OF THE AMIABLE, PIOUS, AND HIGHLY-GIFTED, BUT DEEPLY-AFFLICTED POET,

COWPER,

WHICH OWES ITS EXISTENCE ENTIRELY TO HIS SUGGESTION,

IS MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,

AS A SLIGHT, BUT SINCERE AND GRATEFUL TRIBUTE OF ESTEEM,

FOR THE NUMEROUS UNMERITED FAVORS RECEIVED FROM HIM,
BY HIS OBEDIENT SERVANT, THE AUTHOR.

PR E F A CЕ.

MANY lives of Cowper have already been pub-| lished. Why, then, it may be asked, add to their number? Simply because, in the opinion of competent judges, no memoir of him has yet appeared that gives a full, fair, and unbiassed view of his character.

It is remarked by Dr. Johnson, the poet's kinsman, in his preface to the two volumes of Cowper's Private Correspondence, "that Mr. Hayley omitted the insertion of several interesting letters in his excellent Life of the poet, out of kindness to his readers." In doing this, however, amiable and considerate as his caution must appear, the gloominess which he has taken from the mind of Cowper, has the effect of involving his character in obscurity. People read "The Letters" with "The Task" in their recollection, (and vice versa,) and are perplexed. They look for the Cowper of each in the other, and find him not. Hence the character of Cowper is undetermined; mystery hangs over it; and the opinions formed of him are as various as the minds of the inquirers.

In alluding to these suppressed letters, the late highly-esteemed Rev. Leigh Richmond, once emphatically remarked-"Cowper's character will never be clearly and satisfactorily understood without them, and they should be permitted to exist for the demonstration of the case. I know the importance of it from various conversations I have had both in Scotland and in England, on this most interesting subject. Persons of truly religious principles, as well as those of little or no religion at all, have greatly erred in their estimate of this great and good man."

Dr. Johnson's two volumes of Private Correspondence satisfactorily supplied this deficiency to all those who have the means of consulting them, and the four volumes by Mr. Hayley. The author of this memoir has attempted not only to bring the substance of these six volumes into one, but to communicate information respecting the poet which cannot be found in either of those works. He is fully aware of the peculiarities of Cowper's case, and has endeavored to exhibit them as prominently as was compatible with his design, without giving to the memoir too much of that melancholy tinge by which the life of its subject was so painfully distinguished.

In every instance where he could well accomplish it, he has made Cowper his own biographer, convinced that it is utterly impossible to narrate any circumstance in a manner more striking, or in a style more chaste and elegant, than Cowper has employed in his inimitable letters.

To impart ease and perspicuity to the memoir, and to compress it into as small a compass as was consistent with a full development and faithful record of the most interesting particulars of Cowper's life, the author has, in a few cases, inserted in one paragraph, remarks extracted from different letters, addressed more frequently, though not invariably, to the same individual. He has, however, taken care to avoid doing this where it could lead to any obscurity.

He has made a free use of all the published records of Cowper within his reach, besides availing himself of the valuable advice of the Rev. Dr. Johnson, Cowper's kinsman, to whom he hereby respectfully tenders his grateful acknowledgments for his condescension and kindness, in undertaking to examine the manuscript, and for the useful and judicious hints respecting it he was pleased to suggest.

Without concealing a single fact of real importance, the author has carefully avoided giving that degree of prominence to any painful circumstance in the poet's life, which would be likely to excite regret in the minds of any of his surviving relatives, and which for reasons the most amiable and perfectly excusable, they might have wished had been suppressed; and he hopes it will be found that he has admitted nothing that can justly offend the most fastidious.

It is particularly the wish of the author to state, that he makes no pretensions to originality in this memoir. He wishes it be regarded only as a compilation; and all the merit he claims for it, if indeed it has any, is for the arrangement of those materials which were already furnished for his use.

He has attempted to make the work interesting to all classes, especially to the lovers of literature and genuine piety, and to place within the reach of general readers, many of whom have neither the means nor the leisure to consult larger works, all that is really interesting respecting that singularly afflicted individual, whose productions, both poetic and prose, can never be read but with delight. OCTOBER 27, 1832.

LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER.

CHAPTER I.

His parentage. Loss of his mother. Poetic description of her character. First school. Cruelty he experienced there. First serious impressions. Is placed under the care of an eminent oculist. Entrance upon Westminster School. Character while there. Remo val thence. Entrance upon an attorney's office. Want of employment there. Unfitness for his profession. Early melancholy impressions.

WILLIAM COWPER was born at Great Berkhamstead, in Hertfordshire, November 15, 1731. His father, Dr. John Cowper, chaplain to King George the Second, was the second son of Spencer Cowper, who was Chief Justice of Cheshire, and afterwards a Judge in the Court of Common Pleas, and whose brother William, first Earl Cowper, was, at the same time, Lord High Chancellor of England. His mother was Anne, daughter of Roger Donne, Esq. of Ludham Hall, Norfolk, who had a common anrestry with the celebrated Dr. Donne, Dean of St. Paul's.

In reference to this lady, it has been justly observed by one of the poet's best biographers, "That the highest blood in the realm flowed in the veins of the modest and unassuming Cowper; his mother having descended through the families of Hippesley of Throughley, in Sussex, and Pellet, of Bolney, in the same county, from the several noble houses of West, Knollys, Carey, Bullen, Howard, and Mowbray, and so, by four different lines, from Henry the Third, King of England." Though, as the same writer properly remarks, "distinctions of this nature can shed no additional lustre on the memory of Cowper, yet genius, however exalted, disdains not, while it boasts not, the splendor of ancestry; and royalty itself may be pleased, and perhaps benefited, by discovering its kindred in such piety, such purity, and such talents as his."

Very little is known of the habits and disposition of Cowper's mother. From the following epitaph, however, inscribed on a monument, erected by her husband in the chancel of St. Peter's church, Great Berkhamstead, and composed by her niece, who afterwards became Lady Walsingham, she appears to have been a lady of the most amiable temper and agreeable manners:

Here lies, in early years bereft of life,
The best of mothers, and the kindest wife,
Who neither knew nor practised any art,
Secure in all she wished-her husband's heart.

Her love to him still prevalent in death,

Pray'd Heaven to bless him, with her latest breath.
Still was she studious never to offend,
And glad of an occasion to commend:
With ease would pardon injuries received,
Nor e'er was cheerful when another grieved.
Despising state, with her own lot content,
Enjoyed the comforts of a life well spent;
Resigned when heaven demanded back her breath,
Her mind heroic 'midst the pangs of death.
Whoe'er thou art that dost this tomb draw near,
O, stay awhile, and shed a friendly tear;
These lines, though weak, are as herself sincere.

"My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss!
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee far away,
And, turning from my nursery-window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such? It was-Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And disappointed still, was still deceived.
By disappointment every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot,
But though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours
When playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Would softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,)
Could these few pleasant hours again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here,
I would not trust my heart, the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might;
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storm all weathered and the ocean crossed,
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay:

So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore
Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar.
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life, long since, has anchored at thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed-
Me, howling winds drive devious, tempest tost;
Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
But, oh! the thought that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me:
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth,
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents passed into the skies!"

Deprived thus early of his excellent and most affectionate parent, he was sent, at this tender age, to a large school at Market-street, Hertfordshire, under the care of Dr. Pitman. Here he had hardships of different kinds to conflict with, which he felt more sensibly, in consequence of the tender manner in which he had been treated at home. His chief sorrow, however, arose from the cruel treatAfter giving birth to several children, this lady ment he met with from a boy in the same school, died in child-bed, in her thirty-seventh year; leav-about fifteen years of age, who on all occasions pering only two sons, John the younger, and William the elder, who is the subject of this memoir. Cowper was only six years old when he lost his mother; and how deeply he was affected by her early death, may be inferred from the following exquisitely tender lines, composed more than fifty years afterwards, on the receipt of her portrait from a relation

in Norfolk:

secuted him with the most unrelenting barbarity; and who never seemed pleased except when he was tormenting him. This savage treatment impressed such a dread upon Cowper's tender mind, of this boy, that he was afraid to lift up his eyes upon him higher than his knees; and he knew him better by his shoe-buckles than by any other part of his dress.

It was at this school, and on one of these painful

occasions, that the mind of Cowper, which was afterwards to become imbued with religious feelings of the highest order, received its first serious impressions-a circumstance which cannot fail to be interesting to every Christian reader, and the more so as detailed in his own words.

"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 and cheerfulness of spirit which I had never before experienced, and took several paces up and down the room with joyful alacrity. Happy had it been for me, if this early effort towards a dependence on the blessed God, had been frequently repeated. But, alas! it was the first and the last, between infancy and manhood."

From this school he was removed in his eighth year; and having at that time specks on both his eyes, which threatened to cover them, his father, alarmed for the consequences, placed him under the care of an eminent female oculist in London; in whose house he abode nearly two years. In this lady's family, religion was neither known nor practised; the slightest appearance of it, in any shape, was carefully concealed; even its outward forms were entirely unobserved. In a situation like this, it was not to be expected that young Cowper would long retain those serious impressions he had experienced; nor is it surprising, that before his removal thence he should have lost them entirely.

In his ninth year, he was sent to Westminster School, then under the care of Dr. Nicholls; who, though an ingenious and learned man, was nevertheless a negligent tutor; and one that encouraged his pupils in habits of indolence, not a little injurious to their future welfare. Here he remained seven years, and had frequent reason to complain of the same unkind treatment from some of his school-fellows, which he had before experienced. His timid, meek, and inoffensive spirit totally unfitted him for the hardships of a public school; and in all probability, the treatment he there received, produced in him an insuperable aversion to this method of instruction. We know but little of the actual progress he made while under the care of Dr. Nicholls; his subsequent eminence, however, as a scholar, proves that he must have been an attentive pupil, and must have made, at this period, a highly creditable proficiency in his studies.

While at this school, he was roused a second time to serious consideration. Crossing a churchyard late one evening, he saw a glimmering light in rather a remote part of it, which so excited his curiosity, as to induce him to approach it. Just as he arrived at the spot, a grave-digger, who was at work by the light of his lanthorn, threw up a skull-bone, which struck him on the leg. This little incident alarmed his conscience, and drew from him many painful reflections. The impression, however, was only temporary, and in a short time the event was entirely forgotten.

On another occasion, not long afterwards, he again at this early age, became the subject of religious impressions. It was the laudable practice of Dr. Nicholls to take great pains to prepare his pupils for confirmation. The Doctor acquitted himself of this duty like one who had a deep sense of its importance, and young Cowper was struck by his manner, and much affected by his exhortations. He now, for the first time in his life, attempted

prayer in secret, but being little accustomed to that exercise of the heart, and having very childish notions of religion, he found it a difficult and painful task, and was even then alarmed at his own insensibility. These impressions, however, like those made upon his mind before, soon wore off, and he relapsed into a total forgetfulness of God, with the usual disadvantage of being more hardened, for having been softened to no purpose. This was evidently the case with him, for on being afterwards seized with the small pox, though he was in the most imminent danger, yet neither in the course of the disease, nor during his recovery from it, had he any sentiments of contrition, or any thoughts of God or eternity. He, however, derived one advantage from it-it removed, to a great degree, if it did not entirely cure, the disease in his eyes, proving, as he afterwards observed in a letter to Mr. Hayley, "a better oculist than the lady who had him under her care."

Such was the character of young Cowper, in his eighteenth year, when he left Westminster school. He had made a respectable proficiency in all his studies; but notwithstanding his previous serious impressions, he seems not to have had any more knowledge of the nature of religion, nor even to have discovered any more concern about it, than many other individuals have been known to feel, at an early age, who have never afterwards given it any attention. After spending six months at home, he was articled to a solicitor, with whom he was engaged to remain three years In this gentleman's family, he neither saw nor heard any thing that could remind him of a single Christian duty; and here he might have lived utterly ignorant of the God that made him, had he not been providentially situated near his uncle's, in Southampton-row. At this favorite retreat, he was permitted to spend all his leisure time, and so seldom was he employed, that this was by far the greater part of it. With his uncle's family he passed nearly all his Sundays, and with some part of it he regularly attended public worship, but for which, probably, he would otherwise, owing to the force of evil example, have entirely neglected.

The choice of a profession for a youth, is ever of paramount importance; if injudiciously made, it not unfrequently lays the foundation for much fu ture disappointment and sorrow. It would certainly have been difficult, and perhaps impossible, to have selected one more unsuitable to the mind of Cowper than that of the law. As Mr. Hayley justly observes, "the law is a kind of soldiership, and, like the profession of arms, it may be said to require for the constitution of its heroes,

'A frame of adamant, a soul of fire." "The soul of Cowper had, indeed, its fire, but fire so refined and ethereal, that it could not be expected to shine in the gross atmosphere of worldly contention." Reserved, to an unusual and extraordinary degree, he was ill qualified to contend with the activity unavoidably connected with this profession. Though he possessed the strongest powers of mind, and a richly cultivated understanding, yet were they combined with such extreme sensibility, as totally disqualified him for the bustle of a court. An excessive tenderness, associated with a degree of shyness, not easily to be accounted for, utterly unfitted him for a profession that would often have placed him before the public, and brought him into contact with individuals not remarkable for such qualities. His extreme modesty, however, while it precluded the possibility of his being successful in this profession, endeared him inexpressibly to all who had the felicity to enjoy his society. Never was there a mind more admirably formed for communicating

to others, in private life, the richest sources of enjoyment; and yet, such were the peculiarities of his nature, that often, while he delighted and interested all around him, he was himself extremely unhappy. The following lines, composed by him about this time, are not less valuable, for the development they give of the state of his mind at that period, than they are remarkable for their exquisite tenderness and poetic beauty :—

"Doomed as I am in solitude to waste

The present moments, and regret the past;
Deprived 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 humor or of spleen.
Still, still I mourn, with each returning day,
Him snatched 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 destined course half done,
Cast forth a wanderer on the world unknown!
See me neglected on the world's rude coast,
Each dear companion of my voyage lost!
Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow,
And ready tears wait only leave to flow!
Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free,
All that delights the happy, palls with me!"

CHAPTER II.

Entrance into the Temple. Employment there. Depression of his mind. Religious impressions. Visit to Southampton. Sudden removal of sorrow. Death of his father. Appointment to the office of reading clerk in the House of Lords. Dread of appearing in public. Consequent abandonment of the situation. Is proposed as clerk of the Journals. Feelings on the occasion. Visit to Margate. Return to London. Preparation for entering upon his office. Distressing sensations on the occasion. Is compelled to relinquish

it for ever. Serious attack of depression. Visit of his brother.

Ar the age of 21, in 1752, Cowper left the solicitor's house, and took possession of a complete set of chambers in the Inner Temple. Here he remained nearly twelve years. And as this may justly be considered the most valuable part of life, it must ever be regretted that he suffered it to pass away so unprofitably. During this important and lengthened period he scarcely did any thing more than compose a few essays and poems, either to gratify, or to assist some literary friend. Prompted by benevolent motives, he furnished several pieces for a work, entitled "The Connoisseur," edited by Robert Lloyd, Esq., to whom he was sincerely and warmly attached.

The following extract from a most playful poetic epistle, addressed to that gentleman, will be read with interest, as it shows that he began at that time to feel symptoms of the depressive malady, which afterwards became to him a source of so much misery.

""Tis not that I design to rob

Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob,
For thou art born sole heir, and single,
Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle;
Nor that I mean, while thus I knit
My thread-bare sentiments together,
To show my genius, or my wit,
When God and you know I have neither;
Or such as might be better shown,

By letting poetry alone.

"Tis not with either of these views

That I presume to address the muse;
But to divert a fierce banditti

(Sworn foes to every thing that's witty ;)
That with a black infernal train,
Make cruel inroads on my brain,

And daily threaten to drive thence My little garrison of sense;

The fierce banditti which I mean,

Are gloomy thoughts, led on by spleen." While he remained in the Temple, he cultivated the friendship of the most distinguished writers of the day; and took a lively interest in their publications, as they appeared. Instead, however, of applying his richly furnished mind to the composition of some original work, for which, the pieces he incidentally wrote, proved him fully competent, his timid spirit contented itself with occasional displays of its rich and varied capabilities. Translation from ancient and modern poets was one of his most favorite amusements. So far, however, was he from deriving any benefit from these compositions, most of which were masterly productions, that he invariably distributed them gratuitously among his friends, as they might happen to request them. In this way he assisted his amiable friend and scholar, Mr. Duncombe; for we find in Duncombe's Horace, published by him in 1759, that two of the satires were translated by Cowper.

When Cowper entered the Temple, he paid little or no attention to religion; all those serious impressions which he had once experienced were gone; and he was left, at that dangerous and critical season of life, surrounded by innumerable most powerful temptations, without any other principles for his guide, than the corrupt affections of our common nature. It pleased God, however, at the very outset, to prevent him from pursuing that rash and ruinous career of wickedness, into which many plunge with heedless and awful insensibility. The feelings of his peculiarly sensitive mind on this occasion he thus describes.

"Not long after my settlement in the Temple, I was struck with such a dejection of spirits, as none but those 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. I presently lost all relish for those studies to which I had before been closely attached; the classics had thing more salutary than amusement, but I had no no longer any charms for me; I had need of someone to direct me where to find it.

thic and uncouth as they are, I yet found in them a "At length I met with Herbert's poems; and, gostrain 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 in his work what I might have found a cure alleviated as while I was reading it. At length I for my malady, yet my mind never seemed so much was advised, by a very near and dear relative, to lay it aside, for he thought such an author more likely to nourish my disorder than to remove it.

"In this state of mind I continued near a twelvemonth; when, having experienced the inefficacy of all human means, I at length betook myself to God in prayer. Such is the rank our Redeemer holds in our esteem, that we never resort to him but in the last instance, when all creatures have failed to succor 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 listen to my cry, instead of frowning me away in anger.

"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

* Sir William Russell, Bart. a favorite friend of the town; the morning was clear and calm; the sun young poet.

shone brightly upon the sea, and the country on the

border of it was the most beautiful I had ever seen. at this season, that he was much less affected by the We sat down upon an eminence, at the end of that solemn event, than he would probably have been arm of the sea which runs between Southampton had it occurred at any earlier or later period of his and the New Forest. Here it was, that on a sudden, life. Perceiving that he should inherit but little as if another sun had been created that instant in fortune from his father, he now found it necessary the heavens on purpose to dispel sorrow and vexa- to adopt some plan to augment his income. It betion of spirit, I felt the weight of all my misery came every day more apparent to his friends, as taken off; my heart became light and joyful in a well as to himself, that his extreme diffidence premoment; I could have wept with transport had I cluded the possibility of his being successful in his been alone. I must needs believe that nothing less profession. After much anxiety of mind on this than the Almighty fiat could have filled me with subject, he at length mentioned it to a friend, who such inexpressible delight; not by a gradual dawn- had two situations at his disposal, the Reading ing of peace, but, as it were, with a flash of his life-Clerk, and Clerk of the Journals in the House of giving countenance. I felt a glow of gratitude to Lords-situations, either of which Cowper then the Father of mercies for this unexpected blessing, and ascribed it, at first, 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. Acting upon this false and pernicious principle, as soon as I returned to London, I burnt my prayers, and away went all my thoughts of devotion, and of dependence upon God my Saviour. Surely, it was of his mercy that I was not consumed. Glory be to his grace.

thought would suit him, and one of which he expressed a desire to obtain, should a vacancy occur. Quite unexpectedly to him, as well as to his friend, both these places, in a short time afterwards, became vacant; and as the Reading Clerk's was much the more valuable of the two, his friend generously offered it to him, which offer he gladly and gratefully accepted, and he was accordingly appointed to it in his thirty-first year.

All his friends were delighted with this providential opening: he himself, at first, looked forward to it with pleasure, intending, as soon as he was settled, to unite himself with an amiable and accomplished young lady, one of his cousins, for whom he had long cherished a tender attachment. These fond "I obtained, at length, so complete a victory over hopes, however, were never realized. The situamy conscience, that all remonstrances from that tion required him to appear at the bar of the House quarter were in vain, and in a manner silenced, of Peers; and the apprehension of this public exthough sometimes, indeed, a question would arise inhibition quite overwhelmed his meek and gentle my mind, whether it were safe to proceed any far- spirit. So acute were his distressing apprehensions, ther in a course so plainly and utterly condemned that, notwithstanding the previous efforts he made in the Scriptures. Isaw clearly, that if the gospel to qualify himself for the office, long before the day were true, such a conduct must inevitably end in arrived that he was to enter upon it, such was the my destruction; but I saw not by what means I could embarrassed and melancholy state of his mind, that change my Ethiopian complexion, or overcome such he was compelled to relinquish it entirely. His an inveterate habit of rebelling against God. harassed and dejected feelings on this occasion he thus affectingly describes:

"The next thing that occurred to me at such a time, was a doubt whether the gospel were true or "All the considerations by which I endeavored false. To this, succeeded many an anxious wish to compose my mind to its former tranquillity, did for the decision of this important question; for I but torment me the more, proving miserable comfoolishly thought that obedience would follow, were forters, and counsellors of no value. I returned to I but convinced that it was worth while to attend to my chambers, thoughtful and unhappy; my counit. Having no reason to expect a miracle, and not tenance fell; and my friend was astonished, instead hoping to be satisfied with any thing less, I acqui- of that additional cheerfulness which he might esced, at length, in favor of that impious conclu- have so reasonably expected, to find an air of deep sion, that the only course I could take to secure my melancholy in all I said or did. Having been hapresent peace, was to wink hard against the pros- rassed in this manner, by day and night, for the pects of future misery, and to resolve to banish all space of a week, perplexed between the apparent thoughts of a subject upon which I thought to so folly of casting away the only visible chance I had little purpose. Nevertheless, when I was in the com- of being well provided for, and the impossibility of pany of deists, and heard the gospel blasphemed, I retaining it, I determined at length to write a letter never failed to assert the truth of it with much ve- to my friend, though he lodged, in a manner, at the hemence of disputation, for which I was the better next door, and we generally spent the day together. qualified, having been always an industrious and I did so, and begged him to accept my resignation diligent inquirer into the evidences by which it is of the Reading Clerk's place, and to appoint me to externally supported. I think I once went so far the other situation. I was well aware of the disinto a controversy of this kind as to assert, that I proportion between the value of the appointments, would gladly submit to have my right hand cut off, but my peace was gone: pecuniary advantages so that I might but be enabled to live according to were not equivalent to what I had lost; and I flatterthe gospel. Thus have I been employed in vindi-ed myself that the Clerkship of the Journals would cating the truth of Scripture, while in the very act fall, fairly and easily, within the scope of my abiof rebelling against its dictates. Lamentable in-lities. Like a man in a fever, I thought a change consistency of a convinced judgment with an un-of posture would relieve my pain, and, as the event sanctified heart!-an inconsistency, indeed, evident will show, was equally disappointed. My friend, at to others as well as to myself; inasmuch as a deistical companion 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 condemned, by my own showing."

In 1756, Cowper sustained a heavy domestic loss, in the death of his excellent father, towards whom he had always felt the strongest parental regard. Such, however was the depressed state of his mind

length, after considerable reluctance, accepted of my resignation, and appointed me to the least profitable office. 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 labored under, was hardly felt when the rest was taken off

« EelmineJätka »