least, and at present with less injury to her health than I apprehended." 3

Cowper himself appeared to suffer less than those who knew his love for the deceased might have expected. Alexander Knox has observed, "that the difference between the letters written to Mr. Newton and to Unwin is particularly striking;" that "there is regard and estimation in the one; friendship, genuine and vivid, in the other." 4 Like the mother, Cowper controlled his feelings; but the sorrow which she sustained with the composure of a mind habitually subdued, he made an effort to throw off. "She," said he, "derives, as she well may, great consolation from the thought, that he lived the life and died the death of a Christian. The consequence is, if possible, more unavoidable than the most mathematical conclusion, that therefore he is happy. So farewell, my friend Unwin! the first man for whom I conceived a friendship after my removal from St. Alban's, and for whom I cannot but still continue to feel a friendship, though I shall see thee with these eyes no more!" To Mr. Newton he said that it was a subject on which he could say much, and with much feeling, but that, habituated as his mind had been these many years to melancholy themes, he was glad to excuse himself the contemplation of them as much as possible; and he could not think of the widow and children whom Mr. Unwin had left without a heartache such as he never remembered to have felt before.5

He applied himself to the revision of his Homer, and in his letters to his cousin resumed that playful manner which rendered them so delightful. But it soon appeared that he had reckoned upon more strength than he possessed. "I have not touched Homer to-day," he says, (the fifth after he had announced his friend's decease to Lady Hesketh.) "Yesterday was one of my terrible seasons, and when Í arose this morning, I found that I had not sufficiently recov

3 To Mr. Smith, Dec. 9.

4 Correspondence with Bishop Jebb, vol. i. p. 274. "I suppose," he adds, "there are not in the world letters equal in merit, as compositions, to those of Cowper to Unwin."

5 Dec. 16.

ered myself to engage in such an occupation. Having letters to write, I the more willingly gave myself a dispensation. Good night!" Two days after, he says, "The cloud that I mentioned to you, my cousin, has passed away,

6

I

or perhaps the skirts of it may still hang over me. feel myself, however, tolerably brisk, and tell you so because I know you will be glad to hear it. The grinners at John Gilpin little dream what the author sometimes suffers. How I hated myself yesterday for having ever wrote it! May God bless thee, my dear! Adieu."7

But the cloud which he hoped had passed away was again gathering. "Once since we left Olney," says he to Mr. Newton, "I had occasion to call at our old dwelling; and never did I see so forlorn and woful a spectacle. Deserted of its inhabitants, it seemed as if it could never be dwelt in forever. The coldness of it, the dreariness, and the dirt, made me think it no unapt resemblance of a soul that God has forsaken. While he dwelt in it, and manifested himself there, he could create his own accommodations, and give it occasionally the appearance of a palace; but the moment he withdraws, and takes with him all the furniture and embellishment of his graces, it becomes what it was before he entered it— the habitation of vermin, and the image of desolation. Sometimes I envy the living, but not much, or not long; for while they live, as we call it, they too are liable to desertion. But the dead who have died in the Lord, I envy always; for they, I take it for granted, can be no more forsaken."

He was not, however, yet wholly possessed by such feelings, and seems to have pursued as wise a course of self-management as the most judicious friend could have advised. Early in January, (the month which he dreaded,) he says to Lady Hesketh,8 "I have had a little nervous feeling lately, my dear, that has somewhat abridged my sleep; and though I find myself better to-day than I have been since it seized me, yet I feel my head lightish, and not in the best order for writing. You will find me, therefore, not only less alert in my manner than I usually am 8 Jan. 8, 1787.

6 Dec. 9.

7 Dec. 11.

when my spirits are good, but rather shorter: I will, however, proceed to scribble till I find that it fatigues me; and then will do, as I know you would bid me do were you here, shut up my desk and take a walk.”

At this time Mr. Newton expressed his regret, that instead of the version on which he was now engaged, he had not undertaken a work of his own. He replied, "I have many kind friends, who, like yourself, wish that, instead of turning my endeavors to a translation of Homer, I had proceeded in the way of original poetry. But I can truly say that it was ordered otherwise, not by me, but by the Providence that governs all my thoughts, and directs my intentions as he pleases. It may seem strange, but it is true, that after having written a volume, in general with great ease to myself, I found it impossible to write another page. The mind of man is not a fountain, but a cistern; and mine, God knows, a broken one. It is my creed, that the intellect depends as much, both for the energy and the multitude of its exertions, upon the operations of God's agency upon it, as the heart, for the exercise of its graces, upon the influence of the Holy Spirit. According to this persuasion, I may very reasonably affirm, that it was not God's pleasure that I should proceed in the same track, because he did not enable me to do it. A whole year I waited, and waited in circumstances of mind that made a state of non-employment peculiarly irksome to me. I longed for the pen, as the only remedy, but I could find no subject: extreme distress of spirit at last drove me, as, if I mistake not, I told you some time since, to lay Homer before me, and translate for amusement. Why it pleased God that I should be hunted into such a business, of such enormous length and labor, by miseries for which He did not see good to afford me any other remedy, I know not. But so it was; and jejune as the consolation may be, and unsuited to the exigencies of a mind that once was spiritual, yet a thousand times have I been glad of it; for a thousand times it has served at least to divert my attention, in some degree, from such terrible tempests as I believe have seldom been permitted to beat upon a human mind. Let my friends, there

9 Jan. 13, 1787.

fore, who wish me some little measure of tranquillity in the performance of the most turbulent voyage that ever Christian mariner made, be contented, that, having Homer's mountains and forests to windward, I escape, under their shelter, from the force of many a gust that would almost overset me; especially when they consider that, not by choice, but by necessity, I make them my refuge. As to fame, and honor, and glory, that may be acquired by poetical feats of any sort, God knows, that if I could lay me down in my grave with hope at my side, or sit with hope at my side in a dungeon all the residue of my days, I would cheerfully waive them all. For the little fame that I have already earned has never saved me from one distressing night, or from one despairing day, since I first acquired it. For what I am reserved, or to what, is a mystery ; -I would fain hope, not merely that I may amuse others, or only to be a translator of Homer."

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In the same letter, speaking of one of Mr. Newton's former parishioners, he alludes to his own state, and expresses an opinion concerning it, according with that in which his friend and Mrs. Unwin had acted upon the former recurrence of his malady. Sally Perry's case," said he, "has given me much concern. I have no doubt that it is distemper. But distresses of mind that are occasioned by distemper, are the most difficult of all to deal with. They refuse all consolation; they will hear no reason. God only, by his own immediate impression, can remove them; as after an experience of thirteen years' misery, I can abundantly testify."

The nervous fever of which he had complained, still affected him when this letter was written; during a whole week, his nights were almost sleepless, and after one effort more, he was forced to lay his translation aside. "This," says he, was a sensible mortification to me, as you may suppose, and felt the more because, my spirits of course failing with my strength, I seemed to have peculiar need of my old amusement. It seemed hard therefore to be forced to resign it just when I wanted it most. But Homer's battles cannot be fought by a man who does not sleep well, and who has not some little degree of animation in the day

time. Last night, however, quite contrary to my expectations, the fever left me entirely, and I slept quietly, soundly, and long. If it please God, that it return not, I shall soon find myself in a condition to proceed. I walk constantly, that is to say, Mrs. Unwin and I together; for at these times I keep her continually employed, and never suffer her to be absent from me many minutes. She gives me all her time and all her attention, and forgets that there is another object in the world.” 10

Before, however, this letter was concluded, he found it proper to state that the fever, though it sometimes seemed to leave him, was not yet gone, that it was altogether of the nervous kind, and attended now and then with much dejection. "A young gentleman," he proceeds to say, "called here yesterday, who came six miles out of his way to see me. He was on a journey from London to Glasgow, having just left the university there. He came, I suppose, partly to satisfy his own curiosity, but chiefly, as it seemed, to bring me the thanks of the Scotch professors, for my two volumes. His name is Rose, an Englishman. Your spirits being good, you will derive more pleasure from this incident than I can at present; therefore I send it."

These were the last lines which Cowper wrote before his malady returned upon him with full force. There is no other account of it than the little which is said in his own

letters after his recovery. "My indisposition could not be of a worse kind. The sight of any face, except Mrs. Unwin's, was to me an insupportable grievance; and when it has happened that by forcing himself into my hiding-place, some friend has found me out, he has had no great cause to exult in his success. From this dreadful condition of mind, I emerged suddenly; so suddenly, that Mrs. Unwin, having no notice of such a change herself, could give none to any body; and when it obtained, how long it might last, or how far it might be depended on, was a matter of the greatest uncertainty." The disease appears to have continued about six months before it left him, as thus stated. Mrs. Newton would have come to Mrs. Unwin's assistance

11

10 To Lady Hesketh, 1787.

11 To Mr. Newton, Oct. 20, 1787.