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 God's own express commandment; to pass the day, and the succeeding days, weeks, months, and years, without one act of private devotion, one confession of our sins, er 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; what is this but to live without God in the world? Many causes may be assigned for this anti-christian spirit, so prevalent among men; but one of the principal I take to be, their forgetfulness that they have the Word of God in their possession.

My friend, sir William Russel, was distantly related to a very accomplished man, who, though he never believed the Gospel, admired the Scriptures as the sublimest compositions in the world, and often read them. I have been intimate myself with a man of fine taste, who has confessed to me, that though he could not subscribe to the truth of Christianity itself, yet he never could read St. Luke's account of our Saviour's appearance to the two disciples going to Emmaus, without being wonderfully affected by it; and he thought that if the stamp of Divinity could any where be found in Scripture, it was strongly marked, and visibly impres sed, 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 invaluable privileges of the Gospel? "He that believeth on me, is passed from death unto life," though it is as plain a sentence as words can form, has

more beauties in it for such a person, than all the labours of which antiquity can boast. If my poor man of taste, whom I have just mentioned, had searched a little further, he might have found other parts of the sacred his tory as strongly marked with the characters of Divinity, as that he mentioned. The parable of the prodigal 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 every thing 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 is that, upon which it principally stakes its credit with us; and the style, however excellent and peculiar to itself, is 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 any thing that would have been more welcome, unless you had sent me your own meditations instead of them.

Yours,

William Cowper.

LETTER VI.

To lady Hesketh.

Sept. 4, 1765.

Though I have some very agreeable acquaint ance at Huntingdon, my dear cousin, none of their visits 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 on the subject, on N.

which I have already so often written. Whatever interests 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 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.

to us.

Poor -! I have heard the whole of his history; and I can only lament: I am sure I can make no apology for him. 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 having spent months in the apprehension of instant 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 favour, 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 alone I owe it all, can solve these questions, and none beside him. If a free-thinker, as many a man miscalls himself, could be brought to give a se rious answer to them, he would certainly say: "Without 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 accident. 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 meanest of his creatures, is supposed to leave those, whom he has made in his own image, to the mercy of chance; and to this, therefore, it is likewise owing, that the correction, which our heavenly Father bestows upon us, that 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 on these occasions than myself; for it were presumption and enthusiasm to neglect them. God has endued them with salutary properties on purpose that we may 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 honour; 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 immediately 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 any thing like resignation to the Divine 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 afflicted: 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 de if that will the whole be most condu

upon

liver me, cive to my happiness; and if he does not deliver me, I may be well assured, that he has none but the most benevolent intention in declining 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 towards 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 attri butes; and, at the same time, the certain consequence of disbelieving his care for us, is, that we renounce ut terly 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 every thing at his hands as a blessing; and to be thankful even while we smart under the rod of iron, with Without this persuasion, which he sometimes rules us.

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 not 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 I 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, William Cowper.

A villa near Southampton.