"So long as I am pleased with an employment, I am capable of unwearied application, because my feelings are all of the intense kind: I never received a little pleasure from anything in my life; if I am delighted, it is in the extreme. The unhappy consequence of this temperature is, that my attachment to my occupation seldom outlives the novelty of it. That nervé of my imagination that feels the touch of any particular amusement, twangs under the energy of the pressure with so much vehemence, that it soon becomes sensible of weariness and fatigue."

Writing to Mr. Newton, 12th July, 1780, he thus again adverts to his own case:-"Such nights as I frequently spend, are but a miserable prelude to the succeeding day, and indispose me, above all things, to the business of writing. Yet with a pen in my hand, if I am able to write at all, I find myself gradually relieved; and as I am glad of any employment that may serve to engage my attention, so especially I am pleased with an opportunity of conversing with you, though it be but upon paper. This occupation, above all others, assists me in that self-deception, to which I am indebted for all the little comfort I enjoy; things seem to be as they were, and I almost forget that they can never be so again. If I have strength of mind, I have not strength of body for the task, which, you say, some would impose upon me. I cannot bear much thinking. The meshes of that fine net-work, the brain, are composed of such mere spinner's threads in me, that when a long thought finds its way into them, it buzzes, and twangs, and bustles about, at such a rate, as seems to threaten the whole contexture."

To the same correspondent he writes on another occasion: "Your sentiments, with respect to me, are exactly like Mrs. Unwin's. She, like you, is perfectly sure of my deliverance, and often tells me so; I make her but one answer, and sometimes none at all. That answer gives her no pleasure, and would give you as little; therefore, at this time I suppress it. It is better on every account that they who interest themselves so deeply in that event, should believe the certainty of it, than that they should not. It is a comfort to them, at least, if it be none to me, and as I could not, if 1 would, so neither would I, if I could, deprive them of it. If human nature may be compared to a piece of tapestry, (and why not?) then human nature, as it subsists in me, though it is sadly faded on the right side, retains all its colour on the wrong. At this season of the year, and in this gloomy and

uncomfortable climate, it is no easy matter for the owner of a mind like mine, to divert it from sad subjects, and fix it upon such as may administer to its amusement. Poetry, above all things, is useful to me, in this respect. While I am held in pursuit of pretty images, or a pretty way of expressing them, I forget everything that is irksome, and, like a boy that plays truant, determine to avail himself of the present opportunity to be amused, regardless of future consequences. It will not be long perhaps, before you will receive a poem, called the Progress of Error; that will be succeeded by another, in due time, called Truth. Don't be alarmed. I ride Pegasus with a curb. He will never run away with me again. I have even convinced Mrs. Unwin, that I can manage him, and make him stop, when I please."

On another occasion he gives the following curious and playful description of himself:-"I can compare this mind of mine to nothing that resembles it more, than to a board, that is under the carpenter's plane, (I mean while I am writing to you;) the shavings are my uppermost thoughts; after a few strokes of the tool, it acquires a new surface; this again, upon a repetition of his task, he takes off, and a new surface still succeeds. Whether the shavings of the present day, will be worth your acceptance, I know not; I am, unfortunately, made neither of cedar nor of mahogany, but Truncus ficulnus, inutile lignum, consequently, though I should be planed till I am as thin as a wafer, it will be but rubbish at last."

To his cousin, Mrs. Cowper, he thus plaintively describes his feelings:-" My days steal away silently, and march on, (as poor mad Lear would have made his soldiers march) as if they were shod with felt; not so silently but that I hear them, yet were it not that I am always listening to their flight, having no infirmity that I had not when I was much younger, I should deceive myself with an imagination that I am still young. I am fond of writing, as an amusement, but do not always find it one. Being rather scantily furnished with subjects that are good for anything, and corresponding only with those who have no relish for such as are good for nothing, I often find myself reduced to the necessity, the disagreeable necessity, of writing about myself. This does not mend the matter much; for though, in a description of my own condition, I discover abundant materials to employ my pen upon, yet as the task is not very agreeable to me, so, I am sufficiently aware, that it is like to prove irksome to

others. A painter, who should confine himself, in the exercise of his art, to the drawing of his own picture, must be a wonderful coxcomb indeed, if he did not soon grow sick of his occupation, and be peculiarly fortunate if he did not make others as sick as himself."

Notwithstanding Cowper's depressive malady, yet his views of religion, even at that period, remained unaltered, and were as much distinguished for their excellence as ever. Writing to his friend, Mr. Unwin, the following judicious remarks occur, respecting keeping the sabbath:-"With respect to the advice you are required to give to a young lady, that she may be properly instructed in the manner of keeping the sabbath, I just subjoin a few hints that have occurred to me on the occasion. I think the sabbath may be considered, first, as a commandment, no less binding upon Christians than upon Jews. The spiritual people among them did not think it enough, merely to abstain from manual occupations on that day, but entering more deeply into the meaning of the precept, allotted those hours they took from the world, to the cultivation of holiness in their own souls; which ever was, and ever will be, incumbent upon all who have the Scripture in their hands, and is of perpetual obligation, both upon Jews and Christians; the commandment enjoins it, and the prophets have enforced it; and, in many instances, the breach of it has been punished with a providential severity, that has made bystanders tremble. Secondly, it may be considered as a privilege, which you will know how to dilate upon better than I can tell you; thirdly, as a sign of that covenant by which believers are entitled to a rest that yet remaineth; fourthly, as the sine quâ non of the Christian character, and upon this head, I should guard against being misunderstood to mean no more than two attendances upon public worship, which is a form observed by thousands who never kept a sabbath in their lives. Consistence is necessary to give substance and solidity to the whole. To sanctify the day at church, and to trifle it away out of church, is profanation, and vitiates all. After all, I should say to my catechumen, Do you love the day, or do you not? If you love it, you will never inquire how far you may safely deprive yourself of the enjoyment of it. If you do not love it, and you find yourself in conscience obliged to acknowledge it, that is an alarming symptom, and ought to make you tremble. If you do not love it, then it is a weariness to you, and you wish it over. The ideas of labor and rest, are not more opposite to each

other than the idea of a sabbath, and that dislike and disgust, with which it fills the souls of thousands, to be obliged to keep it: it is worse than bodily labor."

To his cousin, Mrs. Cowper, he again writes:-"I know not what impressions time may have made upon your person, for while his claws, (as our grandams called them,) strike deep furrows in some faces, he seems to sheath them with much tenderness, as if fearful of doing injury to others. But, though an enemy to the body, he is a friend to the mind, and you have doubtless found him so. Though, even in this respect, his treatment of us depends upon what he meets with at our hands, if we use him well, and listen to his admonitions, he is a friend indeed; but otherwise, the worst of enemies, who takes from us daily, something that we valued, and gives us nothing better in its stead. It is well with them, who, like you, can stand a tip-toe on the mountain-top of human life, look down with pleasure upon the valley they have passed, and sometimes stretch their wings in joyful hope of a happy flight into eternity. Yet a little while, and your hope will be accomplished. The course of a rapid river is the justest of all emblems, to express the variableness of our scene below. Shakspeare says, none ever bathed himself twice in the same stream; and it is equally true, that the world upon which we close our eyes at night, is never the same as that upon which we open them in the morning."

CHAPTER VIII.

Makes preparations for publishing his first volume-Reasons assigned for it-Beneficial effects of composition on his mind-His comparative indifference to the success of his volume-Great care, nevertheless, with which he composed it-His readiness to avail himself of the assistance and advice of his friends-The interest which Mr. Newton took in his publication-Writes the preface for the volume-Cowper's judicious reply to some objections that had been made to it-Publication of the volume-Manner in which it was received-Continuance of Cowper's depression-State of his mind respecting religion-His warm attachment to the leading truths of the gospel-Ardent desires to make his volume the means of conveying them to others.

MORE than seven years had now elapsed since the commencement of Cowper's distressing malady; and though he was not yet perfectly recovered, he had, at length, gradually acquired the full exercise of those mental powers for which he was so highly distinguished. Having now employed his muse, with the happiest effect, for nearly two years, he had composed a sufficient number of lines to form a respectable volume. Mrs. Unwin had witnessed with delight the productions of his pen, and she now wisely urged him to make them public. He was, at first, exceedingly averse to the measure; but, after some consideration, he at length yielded to her suggestions, and made preparations to appear as an author. His letters to his correspondents on the subject are highly interesting, and afford a full development of the design he had in view in appearing before the public. To Mr. Unwin he thus writes:-"Your mother says I must write, and must admits of no apology; I might otherwise plead that I have nothing to say, that I am weary, that I am dull, that it would be more convenient for you, as well as for myself, that I should let it alone. But all these pleas, and whatever pleas besides, either disinclination, indolence, or necessity, might suggest, are overruled, as they ought to be, the moment a lady adduces her irrefragable argument, you must. Urged by her entreaties, I have at length sent a volume to the press: the greater part of it is the produce of last winter. Two-thirds of the volume will be occupied by four pieces. It contains, in all, about two thousand five hundred