only an annual visit. The poet thus alludes, in a letter to Lady Hesketh, to John's first appearance in the town: "My brother drove up and down Olney in quest of us, almost as often as you up and down Chancery Lane in quest of the Madans, with fifty boys and girls at his tail, before he could find us "-partly on account of the stupidity of those of whom inquiry was made, and partly from the out-of-the-way situation of the house, which was much hidden by the markethill trees and buildings.

That John could not see his way to embracing the doctrines of Evangelicalism still continued a source of regret to the poet, who, whenever he met his brother, engaged him "in conversation of a spiritual kind.” By and by John became more reserved, and, instead of arguing as formerly, listened patiently and made no reply, with a view-as he afterwards declared-to the avoidance of disputes, and to securing the "continuance of that peace which had always subsisted between us.” When at Olney John conformed to the customs of Mrs. Unwin's household; went to church (where he would hear John Newton preaching those same doctrines that he felt so much repugnance to); "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 anything he heard or saw "-carrying himself, indeed, like what he really was a perfect gentleman. To request John Cowper to preach from Olney pulpit was of course out of all question, "nor," says Cowper, "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."

Despite, however, that he was apparently unaffected by what he heard and saw at Olney, there was in reality a slow change taking place in the mind of John Cowper. Morality alone, he was beginning to see, was not sufficient for fallen man. Something more was required. The ill-success that attended him in his own. parish of Foxton was in itself a proof. His moral sermons, his warnings and reproofs, were "spoken to the wind and attended with no effect." If we are to believe his brother's words, he was one of those "who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and despised the doctrines of the Cross."

Notwithstanding his gifts and successes, John Cowper had always been troubled by a shadow on his happiness, a shadow which was none other than the prediction made when he was a boy by the gipsy tinker at Felstead. By a curious coincidence, all that the gipsy had prophesied had so far come true. We have seen how he was taken from Felstead and sent to a larger school-namely, Eton. His Felstead schoolfellow continued his friend throughout life, and to a younger sister of this friend John Cowper became much attached, though the young lady did not return his affection-thus fulfilling another portion of the gipsy's prophecy. Consonant with the prophetical words, too, he had reached the age of thirty, and was not married. And now only one more portion of the prophecy remained to be fulfilled. After the age of thirty "his fate became obscure, and the lines of his

hand showed no more prognostics of futurity." In other words, as John understood it, he was speedily to die; the consequence being that his mind was often troubled. About this time his friend saw him again at Cambridge, and the following incident occurred: John Cowper was walking and talking with him in one of the college gardens near a gate, when he suddenly interrupted the conversation and exclaimed, "Did you see that man pass?" The friend, who had observed nothing, asked what man he meant. John Cowper replied, "The "The very man you and I met at Felstead, and in a soldier's jacket-I saw him pass the gate!" They both ran to it and into the public road, but saw no such person. Cowper said, "It is a warning-you know he could predict nothing of me after my thirtieth year." As the writer who supplied Southey with these facts observes, the dejection at various times of John Cowper, and the fancied apparition of the gipsy pedlar, "were but too surely indications of the same constitutional malady which so often embittered the existence of his brother."

For several years John Cowper had laboured hard at a translation of Apollonius Rhodius, his favourite author, and his friend perceived that he sat far too long at his work. His intense application to his studies, indeed, was gradually undermining his constitution. In the autumn of this year he made a journey into Wales; whilst returning thence he took cold, and, lest he should be laid up at a distance from home, he pushed forward as fast as possible with fever upon him. Soon after his arrival at Cambridge he discharged a quantity of blood; and his brother was at once sent

for from Olney. Every one believed that there was no hope. None were more depressed than William, but it was his brother's spiritual danger that gave him most pain.

Remembering that he had himself obtained good from the poems of George Herbert, Cowper read them to his brother. Seizing a fair opportunity, too, he made a confession of his faith, which, he says, "I did as well as I was able, illustrating it with my own experience." To the surprise of every one, however, John presently began to recover strength, and so rapidly did he mend, thanks to a strong constitution, that after a stay in Cambridge of only ten days his brother was able to leave him, in full belief that all was going on well.

49. The Death of his Brother John.-
March, 1770.

John's recovery, however, was only apparent. In February of the next year (1770) William was again summoned to attend him, and "by letters which represented him as so ill, that the physician entertained but little hope of his recovery." The complaints were "asthma and dropsy, supposed to be the effect of an imposthume in his liver." But what distressed Cowper was that his brother displayed so little preparedness for the change that was imminent. On the occasion of the former illness Cowper had been distressed at seeing on his brother's bed, not a Bible, but a book of plays; but this carelessness at an even more serious

time was tenfold more distressing to him. “He was cheerful," says Cowper, "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. . . 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 all the better for it."

To Mrs. Unwin, on the 26th of February, he writes: "I am tossed upon the waves of Hope and Fear. I see my brother asleep upon the very brink of Ruin, and the only Hand that can pluck him thence is not yet stretched out for his Deliverance. Every day brings him sensibly nearer to the great Decision; my thoughts are interested in his Condition all day long, and at night I pray for him in my dreams." This letter, which is the only one that has been preserved from Cowper to this dear friend, is likewise interesting as