My brother, pierced to the heart with the sight of my misery, tried to comfort me, but all to no purpose. I refused comfort, and my mind appeared to me in such colours, that to administer it to me was only to exasperate me, and to mock my fears.
At length, I remembered my friend Martin Madan, and sent for him. I used to think him an enthusiast, but now seemed convinced that, if there was any balm in Gilead, he must administer it to me. On former occasions, when my spiritual concerns had at any time occurred to me, I thought likewise on the necessity of repentance. I knew that many persons had spoken of shedding tears for sin; but, when I asked myself, whether the time would ever come when I should weep for mine, it seemed to me that a stone might sooner do it.
Not knowing that Christ was exalted to give repentance, I despaired of ever attaining to it. My friend came to me; we sat on the bed-side together, and he began to declare to me the gospel. He spoke of original sin, and the corruption of every man born into the world, whereby every one is a child of wrath. I perceived something like hope dawning in my heart.This doctrine set me more on a level with the rest of mankind, and made my condition appear less desperate.
Next he insisted on the all-atoning efficacy of the blood of Jesus, and his righteousness, for our justification. While I heard this part of his discourse, and the scriptures on which he founded it, my heart began to burn within me, my soul was pierced with a sense of my bitter ingratitude to so merciful a Saviour; and those tears, which I thought impossible, burst forth freely. I saw clearly that my case required such a remedy, and had not the least doubt within me but that this was the gospel of salvation.
Lastly, he urged the necessity of a lively faith in Jesus Christ; not an assent only of the understanding, but a faith of application, an actually laying hold of it, and embracing it as a salvation wrought out for me personally. Here I failed, and deplored my want of such a faith. He told me it was the gift of God, which he trusted he would bestow upon me. I could only reply, "I wish he would:" a very irreverent petition;[753]but a very sincere one, and such as the blessed God, in his due time, was pleased to answer.
My brother, finding that I had received consolation from Mr. Madan, was very anxious that I should take the earliest opportunity of conversing with him again; and, for this purpose, pressed me to go to him immediately. I was for putting it off, but my brother seemed impatient of delay; and, at length, prevailed on me to set out. I mention this, to the honour of his candour and humanity; which would suffer no difference of sentiments to interfere with them. My welfare was his only object, and all prejudices fled before his zeal to procure it. May he receive, for his recompence, all that happiness the gospel, which I then first became acquainted with, is alone able to impart!
Easier, indeed, I was, but far from easy. The wounded spirit within me was less in pain, but by no means healed. What I had experienced was but the beginning of sorrows, and a long train of still greater terrors was at hand. I slept my three hours well, and then awoke with ten times a stronger alienation from God than ever.
At eleven o'clock my brother called upon me, and, in about an hour after his arrival, that distemper of mind, which I had so ardently wished for, actually seized me.
While I traversed the apartment, expecting every moment the earth would open her mouth and swallow me, my conscience scaring me, and the city of refuge out of reach and out of sight, a strange and horrible darkness fell upon me. If it were possible that a heavy blow could light on the brain, without touching the skull, such was the sensation I felt. I clapped my hand to my forehead, and cried aloud, through the pain it gave me. At every stroke my thoughts and expressions became more wild and incoherent; all that remained clear was the sense of sin, and the expectation of punishment. These kept undisturbed possession all through my illness, without interruption or abatement.
My brother instantly observed the change, and consulted with my friends on the best manner to dispose of me. It was agreed among them, that I should be carried to St. Alban's, where Dr. Cotton kept a house for the reception of such patients, and with whom I was known to have a slight acquaintance. Not only his skill as a physician recommended him to their choice, but his well-known humanity and sweetness of temper. It will be proper to draw a veil over the secrets of my prison-house: let it suffice to say, that the low state of body and mind to which I was reduced was perfectly well calculated to humble the natural vain-glory and pride of my heart.
These are the efficacious means which Infinite Wisdom thought meet to make use of for that purpose. A sense of self-loathing and abhorrence ran through all my insanity. Conviction of sin, and expectation of instant judgment, never left me, from the 7th of December 1763, until the middle of July following. The accuser of the brethren was ever busy with me night and day, bringing to my recollection in dreams the commission of long-forgotten sins, and charging upon my conscience things of an indifferent nature as atrocious crimes.
All that passed in this long interval of eight months may be classed under two heads, conviction of sin, and despair of mercy. But, blessed be the God of my salvation, for every sigh I drew, for every tear I shed; since thus it pleased him to judge me here, that I might not be judged hereafter.
After five months of continual expectation that the divine vengeance would overtake me, I became so familiar with despair as to have contracted a sort of hardiness and indifference as to the event. I began to persuade myself that, while the execution of the sentence was suspended, it would be for my interest to indulge a less horrible train of ideas than I had been accustomed to muse upon. By the means I entered into conversation with the doctor, laughed at his stories, and told him some of my own to match them; still, however, carrying a sentence of irrevocable doom in my heart.
He observed the seeming alteration with pleasure. Believing, as well he might, that my smiles were sincere, he thought my recoverywell-nigh completed; but they were, in reality, like the green surface of a morass, pleasant to the eye, but a cover for nothing but rottenness and filth.The only thing that could promote and effectuate my cure was yet wanting; an experimental knowledge of the redemption which is in Christ Jesus.
In about three months more (July 25, 1764) my brother came from Cambridge to visit me. Dr. C. having told him that he thought me greatly amended, he was rather disappointed at finding me almost as silent and reserved as ever; for the first sight of him struck me with many painful sensations both of sorrow for my own remediless condition and envy of his happiness.
As soon as we were left alone, he asked me how I found myself; I answered, "As much better as despair can make me." We went together into the garden. Here, on expressing a settled assurance of sudden judgment, he protested to me that it was all a delusion; and protested so strongly, that I could not help giving some attention to him. I burst into tears, and cried out, "If it be a delusion, then am I the happiest of beings." Something like a ray of hope was shot into my heart; but still I was afraid to indulge it. We dined together, and I spent the afternoon in a more cheerful manner. Something seemed to whisper to me every moment, "Still there is mercy."
Even after he left me, this change of sentiment gathered ground continually; yet my mind was in such a fluctuating state, that I can only call it a vague presage of better things at hand, without being able to assign a reason for it. The servant observed a sudden alteration in me for the better: and the man, whom I have ever since retained in my service,[754]expressed great joy on the occasion.
I went to bed and slept well. In the morning, I dreamed that the sweetest boy I ever saw came dancing up to my bedside; he seemed just out of leading-strings, yet I took particular notice of the firmness and steadiness of his tread. The sight affected me with pleasure, and served at least to harmonize my spirits; so that I awoke for the first time with a sensation of delight on my mind. Still, however, I knew not where to look for the establishment of the comfort I felt; my joy was as much a mystery to myself as to those about me. The blessed God was preparing for me the clearer light of his countenance, by this first dawning of that light upon me.
Within a few days of my first arrival at St. Alban's, I had thrown aside the word of God, as a book in which I had no longer any interest or portion. The only instance, in which I can recollect reading a single chapter, was about two months before my recovery. Having found a Bible on the bench in the garden, I opened upon the 11th of St. John, where Lazarus is raised from the dead; and saw so much benevolence, mercy, goodness, and sympathy, with miserable man, in our Saviour's conduct, that I almost shed tears even after the relation; little thinking that it was an exact type of the mercy which Jesus was on the point of extending towards myself. I sighed, and said, "Oh, that I had not rejected so good a Redeemer, that I had not forfeited all his favours!" Thus was my heart softened, though not yet enlightened. I closed the book, without intending to open it again.
Having risen with somewhat of a more cheerful feeling, I repaired to my room, where breakfast waited for me. While I sat at table, I found the cloud of horror, which had so long hung over me, was every moment passing away; and every moment came fraught with hope. I was continually more and more persuaded that I was not utterly doomed to destruction. The way of salvation was still, however, hid from my eyes; nor did I see it at all clearer than before my illness. I only thought that, if it would please God to spare me, I would lead a better life; and that I would yet escape hell, if a religious observance of my duty would secure me from it.
Thus may the terror of the Lord make a pharisee; but only the sweet voice of mercy in the gospel can make a Christian.
[We are now arrived at the eventful crisis of Cowper's conversion and restoration, which is thus recorded in his own words.]
But the happy period which was to shake off my fetters, and afford me a clear opening of the free mercy of God in Christ Jesus, was now arrived. I flung myself into a chair near the window, and, seeing a Bible there, ventured once more to apply to it for comfort and instruction. The first verse I saw was the 25th of the 3rd of Romans; "Whom God hath set forth to be a propitiation through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of God."
Immediately I received strength to believe it, and the full beams of the Sun of Righteousness shone upon me. I saw the sufficiency of the atonement he had made, my pardon sealed in his blood, and all the fulness and completeness of his justification. In a moment I believed, and received the gospel. Whatever my friend Madan had said to me, long before, revived in all its clearness, with demonstration of the Spirit and with power. Unless the Almighty arm had been under me, I think I should have died with gratitude and joy. My eyes filled with tears, and my voice choked with transport, I could only look up to heavenin silent fear, overwhelmed with love and wonder. But the work of the Holy Ghost is best described in his own words, it is "joy unspeakable, and full of glory." Thus was my heavenly Father in Christ Jesus pleased to give me the full assurance of faith, and out of a strong, stony, unbelieving heart, to raise up a child unto Abraham. How glad should I now have been to have spent every moment in prayer and thanksgiving!
I lost no opportunity of repairing to a throne of grace; but flew to it with an earnestness irresistible and never to be satisfied. Could I help it? Could I do otherwise than love and rejoice in my reconciled Father in Christ Jesus? The Lord had enlarged my heart, and I ran in the way of his commandments. For many succeeding weeks, tears were ready to flow, if I did but speak of the gospel, or mention the name of Jesus. To rejoice day and night was all my employment. Too happy to sleep much, I thought it was but lost time that was spent in slumber. O that the ardour of my first love had continued! But I have known many a lifeless and unhallowed hour since; long intervals of darkness, interrupted by short returns of peace and joy in believing.
My physician, ever watchful and apprehensive for my welfare, was now alarmed, lest the sudden transition from despair to joy should terminate in a fatal frenzy. But "the Lord was my strength and my song, and was become my salvation." I said, "I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord; he has chastened me sore, but not given me over unto death. O give thanks unto the Lord, for his mercy endureth for ever."
In a short time, Dr. C. became satisfied, and acquiesced in the soundness of my cure: and much sweet communion I had with him, concerning the things of our salvation. He visited me every morning while I stayed with him, which was near twelve months after my recovery, and the gospel was the delightful theme of our conversation.
No trial has befallen me since, but what might be expected in a state of warfare. Satan, indeed, has changed his battery. Before my conversion, sensual gratification was the weapon with which he sought to destroy me. Being naturally of an easy, quiet disposition, I was seldom tempted to anger; yet that passion it is which now gives me the most disturbance, and occasions the sharpest conflicts. But, Jesus being my strength, I fight against it; and if I am not conqueror, yet I am not overcome.
I now employed my brother to seek out an abode for me in the neighbourhood of Cambridge, being determined, by the Lord's leave, to see London, the scene of my former abominations, no more. I had still one place of preferment left, which seemed to bind me under the necessity of returning thither again. But I resolved to break the bond, chiefly because my peace of conscience was in question. I held, for some years, the office of commissioner of bankrupts, with about 60l. per annum. Conscious of my ignorance of the law, I could not take the accustomed oath, and resigned it; thereby releasing myself from an occasion of great sin, and every obligation to return to London. By this means, I reduced myself to an income scarcely sufficient for my maintenance; but I would rather have starved in reality than deliberately offend against my Saviour; and his great mercy has since 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," according to his gracious promise.
After my brother had made many unsuccessful attempts to procure me a dwelling near him, I one day poured out my soul in prayer to God, beseeching him that, wherever he should be pleased, in his fatherly mercy, to lead me, it might be in the society of those who feared his name, and loved the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity; a prayer of which I have good reason to acknowledge his gracious acceptance.
In the beginning of June, 1765, I received a letter from my brother, to say, he had taken lodgings for me at Huntingdon, which he believed would suit me. Though it was sixteen miles from Cambridge, I was resolved to take them; for I had been two months in perfect health, and my circumstances required a less expensive way of life. It was with great reluctance, however, that I thought of leaving the place of my second nativity; I had so much leisure there to study the blessed word of God, and had enjoyed so much happiness; but God ordered everything for me like an indulgent Father, and had prepared a more comfortable place of residence than I could have chosen for myself.
On the 7th of June, 1765, 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 heexpressed to follow me. He seemed to have been providentially thrown in my way, having entered Dr. C.'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 with 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.[755]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.
I repaired to Huntingdon the Saturday after my arrival at Cambridge. My brother, who had attended me thither, had no sooner left me than, finding myself surrounded by strangers and in a strange place, my spirits began to sink, and I felt (such were the backslidings of my heart) like a traveller in the midst of an inhospitable desert, without a friend to comfort or a guide to direct me. 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 length, so powerfully drawn towards the Lord, that, having gained a retired and secret nook in the corner of a field, I kneeled down under a bank, and poured forth my complaints before him. It pleased my Saviour to hear me, in that this oppression was taken off, and I was enabled to trust in him that careth for the stranger, to roll my burden upon him, and to rest assured that, wheresoever he might cast my lot, the God of all consolation would still be with me. But this was not all. He did for me more than either I had asked or thought.
The next day, I went to church for the first time after my recovery. Throughout the whole service, I had much to do to restrain my emotions, so fully did I see the beauty and the glory of the Lord. My heart was full of love to all the congregation, especially to them in whom I observed an air of sober attention. A grave and sober person sat in the pew with me; him I have since seen and often conversed with, and have found him a pious man, and a true servant of the blessed Redeemer. While he was singing the psalm, I looked at him, and, observing him intent on his holy employment, I could not help saying in my heart, with much emotion, "Bless you, for praising Him whom my soul loveth!"
Such was the goodness of the Lord to me, that he gave me "the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;" and though my voice was silent, being stopped by the intenseness of what I felt, yet my soul sung within me, and even leaped for joy. And when the gospel for the day was read, the sound of it was more than I could well support. Oh, what a word is the word of God, when the Spirit quickens us to receive it, and gives the hearing ear, and the understanding heart! The harmony of heaven is in it, and discovers its author. The parable of the prodigal son was the portion. I saw myself in that glass so clearly, and the loving-kindness of my slighted and forgotten Lord, that the whole scene was realized to me, and acted over in my heart.
I went immediately after church to the place where I had prayed the day before, and found the relief I had there received was but the earnest of a richer blessing. How shall I express what the Lord did for me, except by saying, that he made all his goodness to pass before me! I seemed to speak to him face to face, as a man conversing with his friend, except that my speech was only in tears of joy, and groanings which cannot be uttered. I could say, indeed, with Jacob, not "how dreadful," but how lovely, "is this place! This is none other than the house of God."
Four months I continued in my lodging. Some few of the neighbours came to see me, but their visits were not very frequent; and, in general, I had but little intercourse, except with my God in Christ Jesus. It was he who made my solitude sweet, and the wilderness to bloom and blossom as the rose; and my meditation of him was so delightful that, if I had few other comforts, neither did I want any.
One day, however, towards the expiration of this period, I found myself in a state of desertion. That communion which I had so long been able to maintain with the Lord was suddenly interrupted. I began to dislike my solitary situation, and to fear I should never be able to weather out the winter in so lonely a dwelling. Suddenly a thought struck me, which I shall not fear to call a suggestion of the good providence which had brought me to Huntingdon. A few months before, I had formed an acquaintance with the Rev. Mr. Unwin's family. His son, though he had heard that I rather declined society than sought it, and though Mrs. Unwin herself dissuaded him from visiting me on that account, was yet sostrongly inclined to it, that, notwithstanding all objections and arguments to the contrary, he one day engaged himself, as we were coming out of church, after morning prayers, to drink tea with me that afternoon. To my inexpressible joy, I found him one whose notions of religion were spiritual and lively; one whom the Lord had been training up from his infancy for the service of the temple. We opened our hearts to each other at the first interview, and, when we parted, I immediately retired to my chamber, and prayed the Lord, who had been the author, to be the guardian of our friendship, and to grant to it fervency and perpetuity, even unto death: and I doubt not that my gracious Father heard this prayer also.
The Sunday following I dined with him. That afternoon, while the rest of the family was withdrawn, I had much discourse with Mrs. Unwin. I am not at liberty to describe the pleasure I had in conversing with her, because she will be one of the first who will have the perusal of this narrative. Let it suffice to say, I found we had one faith, and had been baptized with the same baptism.
When I returned home, I gave thanks to God, who had so graciously answered my prayers, by bringing me into the society of Christians. She has since been a means in the hand of God of supporting, quickening, and strengthening me, in my walk with him. It was long before I thought of any other connexion with this family, than as a friend and neighbour. On the day, however, above mentioned, while I was revolving in my mind the nature of my situation, and beginning, for the first time, to find an irksomeness in such retirement, suddenly it occurred to me, that I might probably find a place in Mr. Unwin's family as a boarder. A young gentleman, who had lived with him as a pupil, was the day before gone to Cambridge. It appeared to me, at least, possible, that I might be allowed to succeed him. From the moment this thought struck me, such a tumult of anxious solicitude seized me, that for two or three days I could not divert my mind to any other subject. I blamed and condemned myself for want of submission to the Lord's will; but still the language of my mutinous and disobedient heart was, "Give me the blessing, or else I die."
About the third evening after I had determined upon this measure, I, at length, made shift to fasten my thoughts upon a theme which had no manner of connexion with it. While I was pursuing my meditations, Mr. Unwin and family quite out of sight, my attention was suddenly called home again by the words which had been continually playing in my mind, and were, at length, repeated with such importunity that I could not help regarding them:—"The Lord God of truth will do this." I was effectually convinced, that they were not of my own production, and accordingly I received from them some assurance of success; but my unbelief and fearfulness robbed me of much of the comfort they were intended to convey; though I have since had many a blessed experience of the same kind, for which I can never be sufficiently thankful. I immediately began to negotiate the affair, and in a few days it was entirely concluded.
I took possession of my new abode, Nov. 11, 1765. I have found it a place of rest prepared for me by God's own hand, where he has blessed me with a thousand mercies, and instances of his fatherly protection; and where he has given me abundant means of furtherance in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus, both by the study of his own word, and communion with his dear disciples. May nothing but death interrupt our union!
Peace be with the reader, through faith in our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen!
Painful as this memoir is in some of its earlier details, yet we know nothing more simple and beautiful in narrative, more touching and ingenuous in sentiment, than its happy sequel and consummation. It resembles the storm that desolates the plain, but which is afterwards succeeded by the glowing beauties of the renovated landscape. No document ever furnished an ampler refutation of the remark that ascribes his malady to the operation of religious causes. On the contrary, it appears that his first relief, under the tyranny of an unfeeling school-boy, was in the exercise of prayer, and that some of his happiest moments, in the enjoyment of the Divine presence, were experienced in the frame of mind which he describes, when at Southampton—that in proportion as he forgot the heavenly Monitor, his peace vanished, his passions resumed the ascendency, and he presented an unhappy compound of guilt and wretchedness. The history of his malady is developed in his own memoir with all the clearness of the most circumstantial evidence. A morbid temperament laid the foundation; an extreme susceptibility exposed him to continual nervous irritation; and early disappointments deepened the impression. At length, with a mind unoccupied by study, and undisciplined by self-command—contemplating a "public exhibition of himself as mortal poison," he sank under an offer which a more buoyant spirit would have grasped as an object of honourable ambition. In this state religion found him, and administered the happy cure.
That a morbid temperament was the originating cause of his depression is confirmed by an affecting passage in one of his poems.
In the beautiful and much admired lines on his mother's picture, there is the following pathetic remark:
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
In dwelling on these predisposing causes, the Editor thinks it right to state, in the most unequivocal manner, that there is not the remotest reason for supposing that any hereditary malady existed in the family of Cowper sufficient to account for this afflicting dispensation. There was an inflammatory action of his blood, and peculiar irritability of the nervous system, which a wise and salutary self-control and the early influence of religious principles might have subdued, or at least modified. Employment, also, or the active exercise of the faculties, seems indispensable to health and happiness.[756]He who lives without an allotted occupation is seldom either wise, virtuous, or happy. The mind recoils upon itself, and is consumed by its own fires. Providence, after the Fall, in mercy, not less than in justice, decreed that man should live by the sweat of his brow; that, in the same moment that he was reminded of his punishment, he might find the toil itself a powerful alleviation to his sufferings, and the exercise of all his faculties the road to competency, to usefulness, and honour.
Two events contributed to exercise a most injurious influence on the morbid mind of Cowper, not recorded in his own Memoir. We allude to the death of his friend Sir William Russel, and his hopeless attachment to Miss Theodora Cowper.
Sir William was the contemporary of Cowper at Westminster, and his most intimate friend. This intercourse was continued in their riper years, on the footing of the most endearing friendship. Unhappily, young Russel was cut off by a premature death,[757]while bathing in the Thames, amidst all the opening prospects of life, and with accomplishments and virtues that adorned his rank and station. This occurrence inflicted a great moral shock on the sensitive mind of Cowper.
But it was his attachment to Miss Theodora Jane Cowper that formed the eventful era in his early life, and clouded all his future prospects. The relation of this fact is wholly omitted by Hayley, in compliance, we presume, with the express wishes of the family. It was, indeed, understood to be a prohibited subject, and involved in much mystery. The name of this lady was never uttered by Cowper, nor mentioned in his presence; and, after his death, delicacy towards the survivor equally imposed the duty of silence. The brother-in-law of the Editor, the Rev. Dr. Johnson, conscious that a correspondence must have existed between the poet and the fair object of his attachment, requested to know whether he could be furnished with any documents, and permitted without a violation of delicacy to lay them before the public. The writer was also commissioned by him to solicit an interview, and to urge the same request, but without success. An intimation was at length conveyed that no documents could see the light till after the decease of the owner. The death of this lady, in the year 1824, at a very advanced age, removed the veil of secrecy, though the leading facts were known by a small circle of friends, through the confidential communications of Lady Hesketh and Dr. Johnson. We now proceed to the details of this transaction. Miss Theodora Cowper was the second daughter of Ashley Cowper, Esq., the poet's uncle, and sister to Lady Hesketh; she was, consequently, own cousin to Cowper. She is described as having been a young lady possessed of great personal attractions, highly accomplished, and distinguished by the qualities that engage affection and regard. It is no wonder that a person of Cowper's susceptibility yielded to so powerful an influence. She soon became the theme of his poetical effusions, which have since been communicated to the public.[758]They are juvenile compositions, but interesting, as forming the earliest productions of his muse, and recording his attachment to his cousin. Miss Theodora Cowper was by no means insensible to the regards of her admirer, and the father was eventually solicited to ratify her choice. But Mr. Ashley Cowper, attached as he was to his nephew, and anxious to promote the happiness of his daughter, could by no means be induced to listen to the proposition. His objections were founded, first, on the near degree of relationship in which they stood to each other; and secondly, on the inadequacy of Cowper's fortune. From this resolution no entreaty could induce him to depart. The poet therefore was compelled to cherish a hopeless passion, which no lapse of time was capable of effacing; and his fair cousin, on her part, discovered a corresponding fidelity.
The subsequent melancholy event, recorded in the Memoir, at once extinguished all further hopes on the subject.
How powerfully his feelings were affected by the death of his friend, Sir William, and by his disappointment in love, may be seen by the following pathetic lines, referring to Miss Theodora Cowper:—
Doom'd as I am, in solitude to wasteThe present moments, and regret the past;Depriv'd of every joy I valued most,My friend torn from me and my mistress lost;Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien,The dull effect of humour, or of spleen!Still, still, I mourn with each returning day,Him, snatch'd by fate in early youth away;And her—through tedious years of doubt and painFix'd in her choice and faithful—but in vain!O prone to pity, generous, and sincere,Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear;Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows,Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes;See me—ere yet my destin'd course half done,Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown!See me neglected on the world's rude coast,Each dear companion of my voyage lost!
Doom'd as I am, in solitude to wasteThe present moments, and regret the past;Depriv'd of every joy I valued most,My friend torn from me and my mistress lost;Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien,The dull effect of humour, or of spleen!Still, still, I mourn with each returning day,Him, snatch'd by fate in early youth away;And her—through tedious years of doubt and painFix'd in her choice and faithful—but in vain!O prone to pity, generous, and sincere,Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear;Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows,Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes;See me—ere yet my destin'd course half done,Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown!See me neglected on the world's rude coast,Each dear companion of my voyage lost!
Such were the preparatory causes that weakened and depressed the mind of Cowper.The immediate and exciting causeof his unhappy derangement has already been faithfully disclosed, as well as the occasion that ministered to its cure.
Pursuing this interesting and yet painful subject in the order of events, it appears that, after spending nearly ten years in the enjoyment of much inward peace, he was visited in the year 1773, at Olney, with a return, not of his original derangement, but with a severe nervous fever, and a settled depression of spirits. This attack began to subside at the close of the year 1776, though his full powers were not recovered till some time after. What he suffered is feelingly expressed in a letter to Mr. Hill. "Other distempers only batter the walls; butthey(nervous fevers) creep silently into the citadel, and put the garrison to the sword."[759]
The death of his brother, the Rev. John Cowper, may have been instrumental to this long indisposition. At the same time we think that his situation at Olney was by no means favourable to his health; and that more time should have been allotted for relaxation and exercise.
In January, 1787, he experienced a fresh attack, though surrounded by the beautiful scenery of Weston; which seems to prove that local causes were not so influential as some have suggested. A much better reason may be assigned in the lamented death of his endeared friend, Mr. Unwin. This illness continued eight months, and greatly enfeebled his health and spirits. "This last tempest," he remarks, in a letter to Mr. Newton, "has left my nerves in a worse condition than it found them; my head, especially, though better informed, is more infirm than ever."[760]In December 1791, Mrs. Unwin experienced her first attack; and in May 1792, it was renewed with aggravated symptoms, during Hayley's visit to Weston. He describes its powerful effect on Cowper's nerves in expressive language, and none can be more expressive than his own, at the close of the same year. "The year ninety-two shall stand chronicled in my remembrance as the most melancholy that I have ever known, except the few weeks that I spent at Eartham."[761]Cowper's mental depression kept pace with the spectacle of her increasing imbecility, till at length, yielding to the pressure of these accumulating sorrows, he sank under the violence of the shock.
The coincidence of these facts is worthy of observation, as they seem to prove that the embers of the original constitutional malady never became extinct, and required only some powerful stimulant to revive the flame. Religious feelings unquestionably concurred, because whatever predominates in the mind furnishes the materials of excitement; but it was not the religion of a creed, for what creed ever proclaimed the delusion under which Cowper laboured.[762]His persuasion was in opposition to his creed, for he knew that he was once saved, and yet believed that he should be lost, though his creed assured him that, where divine grace had once revealed its saving power, it never failed to perfect its work in mercy—that the Saviour's love is unchangeable, and that whom he hath loved he loveth unto the end (John xiii. 1). His case, therefore, was an exception to his creed, and consequently must be imputed to the operation of other causes.
We trust we have now succeeded in tracing to its true source the origin of Cowper's malady, and that the numerous facts which have been urged must preclude the possibility of future misconception.
There are some distinguishing features in this mysterious malady which are too extraordinary not to be specified. We notice the following:—
1st. The free exercise of his mental powers continued during the whole period of his depression, with the exception of two intervals, from 1773 to 1776, and a season of eight months in the year 1787. With these intermissions of study, all his works were written inmoments of depression and unceasing nervous excitement.
It still further shows the singular mechanism of his wonderful mind, that his Montes Glaciales, or Ice Islands, exhibiting decided marks of vigour of genius, were composed in the last stage of his malady—within five weeks of his decease—when his heart was lacerated by sorrow, his imagination scared by dreams, and the heavens over his head were as brass. The public papers had announced a phenomenon, which the voyages of Captains Ross and Parry have now made more familiar, viz., the disruption of immense masses of ice in the North Pole, and their appearance in the German Ocean. Cowper seized this incident as a fit subject for his poetic powers, and produced the poem from which we make the following extract:—
What portents, from what distant region, ride,Unseen till now in ours, th' astonish'd tide?—What view we now? more wondrous still! Behold!Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold;And all around the pearl's pure splendour show,And all around the ruby's fiery glow.Come they from India, where the burning earth,All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth;And where the costly gems, that beam aroundThe brows of mightiest potentates, are found?No. Never such a countless, dazzling storeHad left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore—Whence sprang they then?——Far hence, where most severeBleak Winter well-nigh saddens all the year,Their infant growth began. He bade ariseTheir uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes.Oft, as dissolv'd by transient suns, the snowLeft the tall cliff to join the flood below,He caught, and curdled with a freezing blastThe current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste.By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pileAnd long successive ages roll'd the while,Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to standTall as its rival mountains on the land.Thus stood, and, unremovable by skillOr force of man, had stood the structure still;But that, though firmly fixt, supplanted yetBy pressure of its own enormous weight,It left the shelving beach—and, with a soundThat shook the bellowing waves and rocks around,Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave,As if instinct with strong desire to lave,Down went the pond'rous mass.
What portents, from what distant region, ride,Unseen till now in ours, th' astonish'd tide?—What view we now? more wondrous still! Behold!Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold;And all around the pearl's pure splendour show,And all around the ruby's fiery glow.Come they from India, where the burning earth,All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth;And where the costly gems, that beam aroundThe brows of mightiest potentates, are found?No. Never such a countless, dazzling storeHad left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore—Whence sprang they then?——Far hence, where most severeBleak Winter well-nigh saddens all the year,Their infant growth began. He bade ariseTheir uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes.Oft, as dissolv'd by transient suns, the snowLeft the tall cliff to join the flood below,He caught, and curdled with a freezing blastThe current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste.By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pileAnd long successive ages roll'd the while,Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to standTall as its rival mountains on the land.Thus stood, and, unremovable by skillOr force of man, had stood the structure still;But that, though firmly fixt, supplanted yetBy pressure of its own enormous weight,It left the shelving beach—and, with a soundThat shook the bellowing waves and rocks around,Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave,As if instinct with strong desire to lave,Down went the pond'rous mass.
See Poems.
2ndly. His malady, however oppressive to himself, was not perceptible to others.
The Editor is enabled to state this remarkable fact on the authority of Dr. Johnson, confirmed by the testimony of Lady Throckmorton, and John Higgins, Esq., of Turvey Abbey, formerly of Weston.
There was nothing in his general manner, or intercourse with society, to excite the suspicion of the wretchedness that dwelt within. Among strangers he was at all times reserved and silent, but in the circle of familiar friends, where restraint was banished, not only did he exhibit no marks of gloom, but he could participate in the mirth of others, or inspire it from his own fertile resources of wit and humour. The prismatic colours, so to speak, were discernible through the descending shower. The bow in the heavens was not only emblematic of his imagination, but might be interpreted as the pledge of promised mercy. For it seemed to be graciously ordered that his lively and sportive imagination should be a relief to the gloomy forebodings of his mind; and that, in vouchsafing to him this alleviation, God proclaimed, "Behold, I do set my bow in the cloud, it shall be for a covenant between me and thee."
3rdly. The rare union, in the same mind, of a rich vein of humour with a spirit of profound melancholy was never perhaps so strikingly exemplified as in the celebrated production of John Gilpin. The town resounded with its praises. Henderson recited it to overflowing auditories; Mr. Henry Thornton addressed it to a large party of friends at Mr. Newton's. Laughter might be said to hold both his sides, and the gravest were compelled to acknowledge the power of comic wit. We scarcely know a more extraordinary phenomenon than what is furnished by the history of this performance. For it appears, by the author's own testimony, that it was written "in the saddest mood, and but for that saddest mood, perhaps, had never been written at all."[763]It is also known that this depression was not incidental or temporary, but a fixed and settled feeling; that he was in fact absorbed, for the most part, in the profoundest melancholy; that he considered himself to be cut off from the mercy of his God, though his life was blameless and without reproach; and that, finally, having enlightened his country with strains of the sublimest morality, he died the victim of an incurable despair. As a contrast to the inimitable humour of John Gilpin, let us now turn to that most affecting representation which the poet draws of his own mental sufferings, occasioned by the painful depression which has been the subject of so many remarks.
Look where he comes—in this embowered alcoveStand close concealed, and see a statue move;Lips busy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow,Arms hanging idly down, hands clasped below,Interpret to the marking eye distress,Such as its symptoms can alone express.That tongue is silent now; that silent tongueCould argue once, could jest or join the song,Could give advice, could censure or commend,Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend.Renounced alike its office and its sport,Its brisker and its graver strains fall short;Both fail beneatha fever's secret sway,And like a summer-brook are past away.This is a sight for pity to peruse,Till she resemble faintly what she views;Till sympathy contract a kindred pain,Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain.This, of all maladies that man infest,Claims most compassion, and receives the least.
Look where he comes—in this embowered alcoveStand close concealed, and see a statue move;Lips busy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow,Arms hanging idly down, hands clasped below,Interpret to the marking eye distress,Such as its symptoms can alone express.That tongue is silent now; that silent tongueCould argue once, could jest or join the song,Could give advice, could censure or commend,Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend.Renounced alike its office and its sport,Its brisker and its graver strains fall short;Both fail beneatha fever's secret sway,And like a summer-brook are past away.This is a sight for pity to peruse,Till she resemble faintly what she views;Till sympathy contract a kindred pain,Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain.This, of all maladies that man infest,Claims most compassion, and receives the least.
See Poem on Retirement.
The minute and mournful delineation of mental trouble here submitted to the eye of the reader, and the fact of this living image of woe being a portrait of Cowper drawn by his own hand, impart to it a character of inimitable pathos, and of singular and indescribable interest.
The physical and moral solution of this evil, and its painful influence on the mind, till the cure is administered by an almighty Physician, are beautifully and affectingly described.