an opportunity to display them, and they are always ready to show themselves in his words and actions, and even in his countenance, at a moment's warning. I have great reason to be thankful-I have lost none of my acquaintance, but those whom I determined not to keep. I am sorry this class is so numerous. What would I not give that every friend I have in the world were not almost but altogether Christians! My dear cousin, I am half afraid to talk in this style, lest I should indulge a censorious humor, instead of hoping, as I ought, the best for all men. But what can be said against ocular proof, and what is hope when it is built upon presumption? To use the most holy name in the universe for no purpose, or a bad one, contrary to his own express commandment; to pass the day, and the succeeding days, weeks, and months, and years, without one act of private devotion, one confession of our sins, or one thanksgiving for the numberless blessings we enjoy; to hear the word of God in public, with a distracted attention, or with none at all; to absent ourselves voluntarily from the blessed Communion, and to live in the total neglect of it, though our Saviour has charged it upon us with an express injunction are the common and ordinary liberties which the generality of professors allow themselves; and what is this but to live without God in the world? Many causes may be assigned for this anti-Christian spirit, so prevalat among Christians, but one of the principal I take to be their utter forgetfulness that they have the word of God in their pos session. of taste, whom I have just mentioned, had searched a little further, he might have found other parts of the sacred history as strongly marked with the characters of divinity, as that he mentioned. The parable of the prod igal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented; our Saviour's speech to his disciples, with which he closes his earthly ministration, full of the sublimest dignity, and tenderest affection; surpass everything that I ever read, and, like the Spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart. If the Scripture did not disdain all affectation of ornament, one should call these, and such as these, the ornamental parts of it, but the matter of it is that upon which it principally stakes its credit with us, and the style, however excellent and peculiar to itself, is the only one of those many external evidences by which it recommends itself to our belief. I shall be very much obliged to you for the book you mention; you could not have sent me anything that would have been more welcome, unless you had sent me your own meditations instead of them. Yours, TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* W. C. August 14th, 1765. Dear Joe,-Both Lady Hesketh and my brother had apprized me of your intention to give me a call; and herein I find they were both mistaken. But they both informed me, likewise, that you were already set out for Warwickshire; in consequence of which lat ter intelligence, I have lived in continual exMy friend, Sir William Russel, was dis- pectation of seeing you, any time this forttantly related to a very accomplished man, night. Now, how these two ingenious perwho, though he never believed the Gospel, sonages (for such they are both) should misadmired the Scriptures as the sublimest com- take an expedition to French Flanders for a positions in the world, and read them often. journey to Warwickshire, is more than I, I have been intimate myself with a man of with all my ingenuity, can imagine. I am fine taste, who has confessed to me that, glad, however, that I have still a chance of though he could not subscribe to the truth seeing you, and shall treasure it up amongst of Christianity itself, yet he never could read my agreeable expectations. In the meantime, St. Luke's account of our Saviour's appear-you are welcome to the British shore, as the ance to the two disciples going to Emmaus without being wonderfully affected by it, and be thought that, if the stamp of divinity was anywhere to be found in Scripture, it was strongly marked and visibly impressed upon that passage. If these men, whose hearts were chilled with the darkness of infidelity, could find such charms in the mere style of the Scripture, what must they find there whose eye penetrates deeper than the letter, and who firmly believe themselves interested in all the valuable privileges of the Gospel? He that believeth on me is passed from death unto life," though it be as plain a senfence as words can form, has more beauties in it for such a person than all the labors antiquity can boast of. If my poor man song has it, and I thank you for your epitome of your travels. You don't tell me how you escaped the vigilance of the custom-house officers, though I dare say you were knuckledeep in contrabands, and had your boots stuffed with all and all manner of unlawful wares and merchandizes. You know, Joe, I am very deep in debt to my little physician at St. Albans, and that the handsomest thing I can do will be to pay him le plutôt qu'il sera possible (that is vile French, I believe, but you can, now, correct it). My brother informs me that you have such a quantity of cash in your hands on my account, that I may venture to send him forty pounds immediately. This, therefore, I shall * Private correspondence. Sept. 4th, 1765. Though I have some very agreeable acquaintance at Huntingdon, my dear cousin, none are so agreeable as the arrival of your letters. I thank you for that which I have just received from Droxford, and particularly for that part of it, where you give me an unlimited liberty upon the subject I have already so often written upon. Whatever in. terests us deeply, as naturally flows into the pen as it does from the lips, when every restraint is taken away, and we meet with a friend indulgent enough to attend to us. How many, in all that variety of characters with whom I am acquainted, could I find, after the strictest search, to whom I could write as I do to you? I hope the number will increase: I am sure it cannot easily be diminished. Poor! I have heard the whole of his history, and can only lament what I am sure I can make no apology for. Two of my friends have been cut off, during my illness, in the midst of such a life as it is frightful to reflect upon, and here am I, in better health and spirits than I can almost remember to have enjoyed before, after hav You told me, my dear cousin, that I need not fear writing too often, and you perceive I take you at your word. At present, however, I shall do little more than thank you for your Meditations, which I admire exceed ingly; the author of them manifestly loved the truth with an undissembled affection, had made great progress in the knowledge of it, and experienced all the happiness that naturally results from that noblest of all attainments. There is one circumstance which he gives us frequent occasion to observe in him, which I believe will ever be found in the philosophy of every true Christian. I mean the eminent rank which he assigns to faith among the virtues, as the source and parent of them all. There is nothing more infalli-ing spent months in the apprehension of inbly true than this; and doubtless it is with a view to the purifying and sanctifying nature of a true faith, that our Saviour says "He that believeth in me hath everlasting life," with many other expressions to the same purpose. Considered in this light, no wonder it has the power of salvation ascribed to it. Considered in any other, we must suppose it to operate like an oriental talisman, if it obtains for us the least advantage; which is an affront to Him, who insists upon our having it, and will on no other terms admit us to his favor. I mention this distinguishing article in his Reflections, the rather because it serves for a solid foundation to the distinction I made in my last, between the specious professor and the true believer, between him whose faith is his Sunday suit and him who never puts it off at all-a distinction I am a little fearful sometimes of making, because it is a heavy stroke upon the practice of more than half the Christians in the world. stant death. How mysterious are the ways of Providence! Why did I receive grace and mercy? Why was I preserved, afflicted for my good, received, as I trust, into favor, and blessed with the greatest happiness I can ever know, or hope for, in this life, while these were overtaken by the great arrest, unawakened, unrepenting, and every way unprepared for it? His infinite wisdom, to whose infinite mercy I owe it all, can solve these questions, and none besides him. If a freethinker, as many a man miscalls himself, could be brought to give a serious answer to them, he would certainly say, "Withont doubt, Sir, you were in great danger; you had a narrow escape; a most fortunate one, indeed." How excessively foolish, as well as shocking! As if life depended upon luck, and all that we are or can be, all that we have or hope for, could possibly be referred to ac cident. Yet to this freedom of thought it is owing that He, who, as our Saviour tells us, is thoroughly apprized of the death of the My dear cousin, I told you I read the book meanest of his creatures, is supposed to leave with great pleasure, which may be accounted those, whom he has made in his own image, for from its own merit, but perhaps it pleased to the mercy of chance: and to this therefore me the more because you had travelled the it is likewise owing, that the correction which same road before me. You know there is our Heavenly Father bestows upon us, that no such pleasure as this, which would want i we may be fitted to receive his blessing, is so often disappointed of its benevolent intention, and that men despise the chastening of the Almighty. Fevers and all diseases are accidents, and long life, recovery at least from sickness, is the gift of the physician. No man can be a greater friend to the use of means upon these occasions than myself, for it were presumption and enthusiasm to negect them. God has endued them with salutary properties on purpose that we might avail ourselves of them, otherwise that part of his creation were in vain. But to impute our recovery to the medicine, and to carry our views no further, is to rob God of his honor, and is saying in effect that he has parted with the keys of life and death, and, by giving to a drug the power to heal us, has placed our lives out of his own reach. He that thinks thus, may as well fall upon his knees at once, and return thanks to the medicine that cured him, for it was certainly more instrumental in his recovery than either the apothecary or the doctor. My dear cousin, a firm persuasion of the superintendence of Providence over all our concerns is absolutely necessary to our happiness. Without it, we cannot be said to believe in the Scripture, or practise anything like resignation to his will. If I am convinced that no affliction can befall me without the permission of God, I am convinced likewise that he sees and knows that I am afilicted; believing this, I must, in the same degree, believe that if I pray to him for deliverance he hears me; I must needs know likewise, with equal assurance, that if he hears he will also deliver me, if that will upon the whole be most conducive to my happiness; and, if he does not deliver me, I may be well assured that he has Done but the most benevolent intention in dechoing it. He made us, not because we could add to his happiness, which was always perfect, but that we might be happy ourselves; and will he not, in all his dispensations to wards us, even in the minutest, consult that end for which he made us? To suppose the contrary, is (which we are not always aware of) affronting every one of his attributes; and, at the same time, the certain consequence of disbelieving his care for us is that we renounce utterly our dependence upon him. In this view it will appear plainly that the line of duty is not stretched too tight, when we are told that we ought to accept everything at his hands as a blessing, and to be thankful even while we smart under the rod of iron, with which he sometimes rules us. Without this persuasion, every blessing, however we may think ourselves happy in it, loses its greatest recommendation, and every affliction is intolerable. Death itself must be welcome to him who has this faith, and he who has it not must aim at it, if he is Dot a madman. You cannot think how glad I am to hear you are going to commence lady, and mistress of Freemantle.* I know it well, and could go to it from Southampton · blindfold. You are kind to invite me to it, and I shall be so kind to myself as to accept the invitation, though I should not, for a slight consideration, be prevailed upon to quit my beloved retirement at Huntingdon. Yours ever, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Huntingdon, Sept. 14, 1765. My dear Cousin,-The longer I live here, the better I like the place, and the people who belong to it. I am upon very good terms' with no less than five families, besides two or three odd scrambling fellows like myself. The last acquaintance I made here is with the race of the Unwins, consisting of father and mother, son and daughter, the most comfortable, social folks you ever knew. The son is about twenty-one years of age, one of the most unreserved and amiable young men He is not yet arrived I ever conversed with. at that time of life when suspicion recom mends itself to us in the form of wisdom, and sets everything but our own dear selves at an immeasurable distance from our esteem and confidence. Consequently, he is known almost as soon as seen, and, having nothing in his heart that makes it necessary for him to keep it barred and bolted, opens it to the perusal even of a stranger. The father is a clergyman, and the son is designed for orders. The design however is quite his own, proceeding merely from his being, and having always been, sincere in his belief and love of the Gospel. Another acquaintance I have lately made is with a Mr. Nicholson, a north-country divine, very poor, but very good, and very happy. He reads prayers here twice a-day, all the year round, and travels on foot to serve two churches every Sunday through the year, his journey out and home again being sixteen miles. I supped with him last night. He gave me bread and cheese, and a black jug of ale of his own brewing, and doubtless brewed by his own hands. other of my acquaintance is Mr. tall, old man, and as good as he is thin. He drinks nothing but water, and eats no flesh, partly (I believe) from a religious scruple (for he is very religious), and partly in the spirit of a valetudinarian. He is to be met with every morning of his life, at about six o'clock, at a fountain of very fine water, about a mile from the town, which is reckoned extremely like the Bristol spring. Being both early risers, and the only early walkers in the place, we soon became acquainted. His great piety can be equalled by nothing * Freemantle, a villa near Southampton. An a thin, but his great regularity; for he is the most I commend you, with earnest wishes for your perfect timepiece in the world. I have re- welfare, and remain your ever affectionate ceived a visit likewise from Mr. He is very much a gentleman, well-read, and sensible. I am persuaded, in short, that if I had had the choice of all England where to fix my abode, I could not have chosen better for myself, and most likely I should not have chosen so well. TO LADY HESKÉTH. W. C. Huntingdon, Oct. 18, 1765. I wish you joy, my dear cousin, of being safely arrived in port from the storms of You say, you hope it is not necessary for Southampton. For my own part, who am salvation to undergo the same afflictions that but as a Thames wherry, in a world full of I have undergone. No! my dear cousin, God tempest and commotion, I know so well the deals with his children as a merciful father; value of the creek I have put into, and the he does not, as he himself tells us, afflict wil- snugness it affords me, that I have a sensible lingly the sons of men. Doubtless there are spmpathy with you in the pleasure you find many, who, having been placed by his good in being once more blown to Droxford. I providence out of the reach of any great evil know enough of Miss Morley to send her my and the influence of bad example, have, from compliments, to which, if I had never seen their very infancy, been partakers of the grace her, her affection for you would sufficiently of his Holy Spirit, in such a manner as never entitle her. If I neglected to do it sooner, to have allowed themselves in any grievous it is only because I am naturally apt to neg offence against him. May you love him more lect what I ought to do; and if I was as and more, day by day, as every day, while genteel as I am negligent, I should be the you think upon him, you will find him more most delightful creature in the universe. I worthy of your love; and may you be finally am glad you think so favorably of my Huntaccepted by him for his sake whose interces-ingdon acquaintance; they are indeed a nice sion for all his faithful servants cannot but prevail ! Yours ever, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Huntingdon, Oct. 10, 1765. My dear Cousin,—I should grumble at your long silence, if I did not know that one may love one's friends very well, though one is not always in a humor to write to them. Besides, I have the satisfaction of being perfectly sure that you have at least twenty times recollected the debt you owe me, and as often resolved to pay it: and perhaps, while you remain indebted to me, you think of me twice as often as you would do if the account was clear. These are the reflections with which I comfort myself under the affliction of not hearing from you; my temper does not incline me to jealousy, and, if it did, I should set all right by having recourse to what I have already received from you. set of folks, and suit me exactly. I should have been more particular in my account of Miss Unwin, if I had had materials for a minute description. She is about eighteen years f age, rather handsome and genteel. In her mother's company she says little, not because her mother requires it of her, but because she seems glad of that excuse for not talking, being somewhat inclined to bashfulness. There is the most remarkable cordiality between all the parts of the family, and the mother and daughter seem to doat upon each other. The first time I went to the house, I was introduced to the daughter alone; and sat with her near half an hour before her brother came in, who had appointed me to call upon him. Talking is necessary in a tete-a-tete, to distinguish the persons of the drama from the chairs they sit on: accordingly, she talked a great deal, and extremely well; and, like the rest of the family, behaved with as much ease and address as if we had been old acquaintance. She resembles her mother in her great piety, who is one of the most remarkable instances of it I have ever seen. They are altogether the cheerfullest and most engaging family-piece it is possible to conceive. Since I thank God for your friendship, and for every friend I have; for all the pleasing circumstances here; for my health of body, and perfect serenity of mind. To recollect the past, and compare it with the present, is all II wrote the above, I met Mrs. Unwin in the have need of to fill me with gratitude; and to be grateful is to be happy. Not that I think myself sufficiently thankful, or that I ever shall be so in this life. The warmest heart perhaps only feels by fits, and is often as insensible as the coldest. This at least is frequently the case with mine, and oftener than it should be. But the mercy that can forgive iniquity will never be severe to mark our frailties; to that mercy, my dear cousin, street, and went home with her. She and I walked together near two hours in the gar den, and had a conversation which did me more good than I should have received from an audience of the first prince in Europe. That woman is a blessing to me, and I never see her without being the better for her company. I am treated in the family as if I was a near relation, and have been repeatedly invited to call upon them at all times. You LIFE OF COWPER. know what a shy fellow I am; I cannot prevail with myself to make so much use of this privilege as I am sure they intend I should, but perhaps this awkwardness will wear off hereafter. It was my earnest request before I left St. Alban's, that wherever it might please Providence to dispose of me, I might meet with such an acquaintance as I find in Mrs. Unwin. How happy it is to believe, with a steadfast assurance, that our petitions are heard, even while we are making them! -and how delightful to meet with a proof of it in the effectual and actual grant of them! Surely it is a gracious finishing given to those means which the Almighty has been pleased to make use of for my conversion. After having been deservedly rendered unfit for any society, to be again qualified for it, and admitted at once into the fellowship of those whom God regards as the excellent of the earth, and whom, in the emphatical language of Scripture, he preserves as the apple of his eye, is a blessing, which carries with it the stamp and visible superscription of divine bounty-a grace unlimited as undeserved; and, like its glorious Author, free in its course, and blessed in its operation! My dear cousin! health and happiness, and. above all, the favor of our great and gracious Lord attend you! while we seek it in spirit and in truth we are infinitely more secure of it than of the next breath we expeet to draw. Heaven and earth have their destined periods; ten thousand worlds will ranish at the consummation of all things; but the word of God standeth fast, and they who trust in him shall never be confounded. My love to all who inquire after me. Yours affectionately, TO MAJOR COWPER. W. C. Huntingdon, Oct. 18, 1765. My dear Major,-I have neither lost the ase of my fingers nor my memory, though ny unaccountable silence might incline you o suspect that I had lost both. The history of those things which have, from time to time, prevented my scribbling would not only be insipid, but extremely voluminous, for which reasons they will not make their appearance at present, nor probably at any ume hereafter. If my neglecting to write to you were a proof that I had never thought of you, and that had been really the case, five shillings apiece would have been much too little to give for the sight of such a monster! but I am no such monster, nor do I perceive in myself the least tendency to such a transformation. You may recollect that I had but very uncomfortable expectations of the accommodations I should meet with at Huntingdon. How much better is it to take our lot where it shall please Providence to cast it In Here are three families who have received me with the utmost civility, and two in particular have treated me with as much cordiality as if their pedigree and mine had grown upon the same sheep-skin. Besides these, there are three or four single men, who suit my temper to a hair. The town is one of the neatest in England; the country is fine for several miles about it; and the roads, which are all turnpike, and strike out four or five different ways, are perfectly good all the year round. I mention this latter circumstance chiefly because my distance from Cambridge has made a horseman of me at last, or at least is likely to do so. My brother and I meet every week, by an alternate reciprocation of intercourse, as Sam Johnson would express it; sometimes I get a lift in a neighbor's chaise, but generally ride. As to my own personal condition, I am much happier than the day is long, and sunshine and candle-light alike see me perfectly contented. I get books in abundance, as much company as I choose, a deal of comfortable leisure, and enjoy better health, I think, than for many years past. What is there wanting to make me happy? Nothing, if I can but be as thankful as I ought, and I trust that He, who has bestowed so many blessings upon me, will give me gratitude to crown them all. I beg you will give my love to my dear cousin Maria, and to everybody at the Park. If Mrs. Maitland is with you, as I suspect by a passage in Lady Hesketh's letter to me, pray remember me to W. C. her very affectionately. And believe me, my dear friend, ever yours, TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. October 25, 1765. Dear Joe,-I am afraid the month of October has proved rather unfavorable to the belle assemblée at Southampton, high winds and continual rains being bitter enemies to that agreeable lounge which you and I are equally fond of. I have very cordially betaken myself to my books and my fireside; and seldom leave them unless for exercise. I have added another family to the number |