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leaving his present abode; meantime, in case of any tendency to relapse, the best medical and moral means might immediately be applied; and he took great delight in Dr. Cotton's religious conversation. He thought him a true philosopher, 'every tittle of his knowledge on natural subjects being connected in his mind with the firm belief of an Omnipotent Agent."

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Dr. Cotton was moreover a man of letters. His "Visions in Verse used to be one of those books which were always in print, because there was a certain demand for them as pre

sents for young people. His various pieces in prose and verse were collected and published in two volumes after his death; and from this edition his poems were incorporated in Dr. Anderson's "Collection of the British Poets." The wellknown stanzas entitled "The Fireside" still hold and are likely to retain a place in popular selections. He was an amiable, mild, good man, verging at that time to old age, who many years before had lost a dearly beloved wife, and on that occasion felt what happily for himself he had long believed, "that no system but that of Christianity is able to sustain the soul amidst all the distresses and difficulties of life. The consolations of philosophy only are specious trifles at best; all cold and impotent applications to the bleeding heart. But the religion of Jesus, like its gracious Author, is an inexhaustible source of comfort in this world, and gives us the hope of everlasting enjoyment in the next." Thus he expressed himself in reply to a letter of consolation from Doddridge upon his

loss.

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I reckon it," says Cowper, 66 one instance of the Providence which has attended me throughout this whole event, that instead of being delivered into the hands of one of the London physicians, who were so much nearer that I wonder

3 "Death and the Rake," which Dr. Cotton gives as "A Dutch Tale," is the same story which has been better told by Mrs. Piozzi as "The Three Warnings." April 29, 1749. In this letter, he says, "What the mind feels upon such a painful divorce none can adequately know but they who have had the bitter experience of the sad solemnity. However delicate and worthy minds will readily paint to themselves something unutterably soft and moving upon the separation of two hearts, whose only division was their lodgement in two breasts." Doddridge's Correspondence and Diary, vol. v. p. 117. He is called Henry Cotton in this work, but his name was Nathaniel.

I was not, I was carried to Doctor Cotton. I was not only treated by him with the greatest tenderness while I was ill, and attended with the utmost diligence, but when my reason was restored to me, and I had so much need of a religious friend to converse with, to whom I could open my mind on the subject without reserve, I could hardly have found a fitter person for the purpose. My eagerness and anxiety to settle my opinions upon that long neglected point, made it necessary that, while my mind was yet weak and my spirits uncertain, I should have some assistance. The Doctor was as ready to administer relief to me in this article likewise, and as well qualified to do it, as in that which was more immediately his province. How many physicians would have thought this an irregular appetite, and a symptom of remaining madness! But if it were so, my friend was as mad as myself; and it was well for me that he was so5."

During this part of his abode at St. Albans, he again poured out his feelings in verse; and the contrast is indeed striking between what he called this specimen of his first Christian thoughts, and that song of despair which cannot be perused without shuddering. He cast his thoughts in the form of a hymn, which he entitled "The Happy Change," and took for his text part of a verse in the Revelation-"Behold I make all things new.

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How blest thy creature is, O God,

When with a single eye

He views the lustre of thy word,

The day-spring from on high!

Through all the storms that veil the skies,
And frown on earthly things,

The Sun of Righteousness he eyes,

With healing on his wings.

Struck by that light, the human heart,

A barren soil no more;

Sends the sweet smell of grace abroad,

Where serpents lurk'd before.

The soul, a dreary province once
Of Satan's dark domain,

Feels a new empire form'd within,
And owns a heavenly reign.

5 To Lady Hesketh, July 4, 1765.

The glorious orb, whose golden beams
The fruitful year control,
Since first, obedient to thy word,

He started from the goal,

Has cheer'd the nations with the joys
His orient rays impart ;

But, Jesus, 'tis thy light alone

Can shine upon the heart.

He had now to fix upon a place of residence. To remain longer with Dr. Cotton, to whom he was by this time "very deep in debt," was what he could not afford. He employed his brother, therefore, to look for lodgings in the neighbourhood of Cambridge, "being," said he, "determined, by the Lord's leave, to see London, the scene of my former abominations, no longer." And that he might have no obligation to return thither, he resigned the office of commissioner of bankrupts, which he had for some years held, with about sixty pounds per annum. He now felt so strongly his ignorance of the law, that he could not in conscience take the accustomed oath; and by this resignation he reduced himself to an income scarcely sufficient for his maintenance; "but I would rather," says he, "have starved in reality, than deliberately have offended against my Saviour." His relations made no attempt to dissuade him from this resolution. Instead of being to them an object of high hopes and expectations, as from his talents and acquirements and disposition he had been when he began life, he had become one of painful and all but hopeless anxiety. Probably they doubted whether his cure was complete, and inferred, from his intended conduct, that though the malady had assumed a happier form, his mind was still unsound. They therefore subscribed among themselves an annual allowance, such as made his own diminished means just sufficient to maintain him respectably, but frugally, in retirement, and left him to follow his own course.

6 This fact, which has not, I believe, been noticed in any life of Cowper, might be inferred from his own memoir. where, after saying he would rather have starved than deliberately have offended against his Saviour, he adds, "His great mercy has 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."" But proof of the fact will presently be given.

His resolution to withdraw from the business of the world, and from its society, occasioned another of those poems which, because of the circumstances that gave rise to them, belong properly to the personal history of an author.

Far from the world, O Lord, I flee,

From strife and tumult far;

From scenes where Satan wages still
His most successful war.

The calm retreat, the silent shade,
With prayer and praise agree;
And seem, by thy sweet bounty, made
For those who follow thee.

There, if thy Spirit touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,

Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love.
She communes with her God!

There like the nightingale she pours
Her solitary lays;

Nor asks a witness of her song,

Nor thirsts for human praise.

Author and guardian of my life,
Sweet source of light divine,
And, (all harmonious names in one,)
My Saviour, thou art mine!

What thanks I owe thee, and what love,

A boundless, endless store,

Shall echo through the realms above
When time shall be no more.

After many unsuccessful attempts to procure lodgings nearer Cambridge, John Cowper wrote to say he had found some at Huntingdon which he believed might suit him. Though this was an inconvenient distance from Cambridge, and Cowper had fixed upon that part of the country solely for the sake of being near his brother, he did not hesitate to take them, having then, he said, been twelve months in perfect health, and his circumstances requiring a less expensive way of life. Before this arrangement was made, he says, "I one day poured out my soul to God in prayer, beseeching him that wherever it should please him in his fatherly mercy to lead me, it might be into the society of those who feared his name, and loved the Lord Jesus in sincerity and truth." It was with great reluctance that he thought of leaving what he called the

place of his second nativity, where he had "so much leisure to study the blessed word of God, and had enjoyed so much happiness.

On the 7th of June, 1765," he proceeds, "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. Cotton'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, 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. 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.”

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Four days he remained at Cambridge, and then, on Saturday the twenty-second, his brother accompanied him to Huntingdon, and having introduced him to his lodgings, left him there, without any other introduction. "No sooner, says Cowper, "had he left me than finding myself surrounded by strangers, and in a strange place, my spirits began to sink, and I felt (such was the backsliding state of my heart) like a traveller in the midst of an inhospitable desert, without a friend to comfort, or a guide to direct him. 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

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