ticable.

They whose spirits are formed like mine, to whom a public exhibition of themselves, on any occasion, is mortal poison, may have some idea of the horror of my situation; others can have none. My continual misery at length brought on a nervous fever; quiet forsook me by day, and peace by night; a finger raised against me was more than I could stand against.

"In this posture of mind I attended regularly at the office; where, instead of a soul upon the rack, the most active spirits were essentially necessary to my purpose. I expected no assistance from any one there, all the inferior clerks being under the influence of my opponent; accordingly I received none. The journal books were indeed thrown open to me; a thing which could not be refused; and from which, perhaps, a man in health, and with a head turned to business, might have gained all the information he wanted. But it was not so with me. I read without perception, and was so distressed, that had every clerk in the office been my friend, it would have availed me little; for I was not in a condition to receive instruction, much less to elicit it out of manuscripts without direction. Many months went over me thus employed; constant in the use of means, despairing as to the issue. The feelings of a man, when he arrives at the place of execution, are, probably, much as mine were every time I set my foot in the office, which was every day for more than half a year together."

He availed himself of the vacation to recruit his

spirits by a visit to Margate, where he withdrew his thoughts from the prospect which distressed him. "About the beginning of October, 1763," he proceeds, "I was again required to attend the office, and to prepare for the push. This no sooner took place, than all my misery returned. Again I visited the scene of ineffectual labours; again I felt myself pressed by necessity on either side, with nothing but despair in prospect. To this dilemma was I reduced, either to keep possession of the office to the last extremity, and by so doing, expose myself to a public rejection for insufficiency; (for the little knowledge I had acquired would have quite forsaken me at the bar of the House,) or else to fling it up at once, and by this means, run the hazard of ruining my benefactor's right of appointment, by bringing his discretion into question. In this situation, such a fit of passion has sometimes seized me, when alone in my chambers, that I have cried out aloud, and cursed the hour of my birth; lifting up my eyes to heaven, at the same time, not as a suppliant, but in the hellish spirit of rancorous reproach, and blasphemy against my Maker."

It would be painful to follow him further in his description of his wretchedness, and it is suffi cient to state, that as his day of trial approached, he looked with eager hope to losing his senses, that he might avoid appearing at the bar of the house of Lords; but being disappointed in his expectation, despair made him contemplate self

reason.

destruction as the only escape from his misery. His brother, who was a clergyman, and some other friends, endeavoured to soothe him by spiritual consolation, but in vain; and in a violent paroxysm of his disease he suddenly lost his After consulting with his family, his brother resolved to place him at St. Albans, under the care of Dr. Cotton, who kept a house for insane patients, and to the skill and humanity of that gentleman he owed his recovery after a seclusion of several months. The chief symptom of his disorder was a conviction of his unworthiness in reference to religion; "a sense," to use his own expression, "of self-loathing and abhorrence, united to a fear of instantaneous judg ment." Cowper continued with Dr. Cotton about eighteen months; and as his views of religion were still tinctured with fanaticism, he refused to return to London on account of its profligacy; and that he might not be tempted to do so by pecuniary considerations, he resigned his Commissionership of Bankrupts, by which he reduced his income to an amount scarcely adequate to his maintenance.

At the suggestion of his brother, he removed, in June, 1765, to Huntingdon; and from that .me Cowper may almost be considered his own biographer, in consequence of his voluminous correspondence, in which he mentions every thing in which he was concerned. His letters, which have long been before the world, are highly appreciated; and copions extracts from such of them

as throw light upon his character, his pursuits, his opinions, or which elucidate his history, will be introduced into this Memoir.

Mr.

He had not been many months at Huntingdon, before he became known to the family of the Rev. William Unwin, the lecturer of two churches in that town; and such was the mutual pleasure which the acquaintance produced, that Cowper became a permanent inmate with them. Unwin's establishment consisted of his wife-the Mary of the Poet-his son, who entered into holy orders, and a daughter. His first letter, after his arrival in Huntingdon, was addressed to Joseph Hill, Esq., an intimate friend who managed his pecuniary affairs, dated on the 24th June, 1765, in which he informed him that he was restored to perfect health both of mind and body; and in October he thus spoke of the Unwins:

They treat me more stranger, and their The old gentleman

"I have added another family to the number of those I was acquainted with, when you were here. Their name is Unwin-the most agreeable people imaginable; quite sociable, and as free from the ceremonious civility of country gentlefolks as any I ever met with. like a near relation than a house is always open to me. carries me to Cambridge in his chaise. man of learning and good sense, and as simple as Parson Adams. His wife has a very uncommon understanding, has read much to excellent purpose, and is more polite than a duchess. The son

He is a

who belongs to Cambridge, is a most amiable young man, and the daughter quite of a piece with the rest of the family. They see but little company, which suits me exactly; go when I will, I find a house full of peace and cordiality in all its parts, and am sure to hear no scandal, but such discourse instead of it, as we are all the better for. You remember Rousseau's description of an English morning; such are the mornings I spend with these good people, and the evenings differ from them in nothing, except that they are still more snug, and quieter. Now I know them, I wonder that I liked Huntingdon so well before I knew them, and am apt to think, I should find every place disagreeable, that had not an Unwin belonging to it."

In March, 1766, he observed in a letter to his cousin, Mrs. Cowper, of Park House, near Hertford: "I have great reason, my dear Cousin, to be thankful to the gracious Providence, that conducted me to this place. The lady, in whose house I live, is so excellent a person, and regards me with a friendship so truly Christian, that I could almost fancy my own mother restored to Life again, to compensate to me for all the friends I have lost, and all my connexions broken. She has a son at Cambridge in all respects worthy of such a mother, the most amiable young man I ever knew. His natural and acquired endownents are very considerable, and as to his virtues, I need only say, that he is a Christian. It ought