whom God regards as the excellent of the earth, and whom, in the emphatical language of Scripture, he preserves as the apple of his eye, is a blessing, which carries with it the stamp and visible superscription of Divine bounty: a grace unlimited as undeserved; and, like its glorious Author, free in its course, and blessed in its operation! My dear cousin! health and happiness, and, above all, the favour of our great and gracious Lord, attend you! While we seek his favour, in spirit and in truth, we are infinitely more secure of it, than of the next breath we expect to draw. Heaven and earth have their destined periods; ten thousand worlds will vanish at the consummation of all things: but the Word of God stands fast; and they, who trust in him, shall never be confounded. My love to all who inquire after me. Yours affectionately, LETTER X. Dear Joe, To Joseph Hill, esq. Huntingdon, Oct. 25, 1765. I am afraid the month of October has proved rather unfavourable to the "belle assemblée" at Southampton; high winds and continual rains being bitter enemies to that agreeable lounge, of which you and I are equally fond. I have very cordially betaken myself to my books, and my fire-side; and I seldom leave them unless merely for exercise. 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 knew. They treat me more Go when I will, cordiality in all its like a near relation than a stranger, and their house is always open to me. The old gentleman carries me to Cambridge in his chaise. He is a man of learning and good sense, and of great simplicity. His wife has a very uncommon understanding; she has read much, to excellent purpose; and she is more polite than a dutchess. The son, who belongs to Cambridge, is a most amiable young man; and the daughter is quite of a piece with the rest of the family. They see but little company, which suits me exactly. I find a house full of peace and parts; and I 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 quiet. Now I know them, I wonder that I liked Huntingdon so well before I knew them; and I am apt to think, I should find every place disagreeable, that had not an Unwin belonging to it. This incident convinces me of the truth of an observation I have often made, that when we circumscribe our estimate of all that is clever within the limits of our own acquaintance, (which I at least have been always apt to do,) we are guilty of a very uncharitable censure upon the rest of the world, and of a narrowness of thinking disgraceful to ourselves. You remember Mr. Gray's stanza. "Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The deep, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; William Cowper. My dear cousin, LETTER XI. To lady Hesketh. Huntingdon, March 6, 1766. I have for some time past imputed your silence to the cause, which you yourself assign for it, viz. to my change of situation; and I was even sagacious enough to account for the frequency of your letters to me, while I lived alone, from your attention to me in a state of such solitude as seemed to make it an act of particular charity to write to me. I bless God, I was happy even then. Solitude has nothing gloomy in it, if the soul points upwards. St. Paul tells his Hebrew converts, "Ye are come" (already come) "to Mount Sion: to an innumerable company of angels; to the general assembly of the first-born, which are written in Heaven; and to Jesus, the mediator of the new covenant." When this is the case, as surely it was with them, or the Spirit of Truth had never spoken it, there is an end of the melancholy and dulness of life. You will not suspect me, my dear cousin, of a design to understand this passage literally. But this, however, it certainly means; that a lively faith is able to anticipate, in some measure, the joys of that heavenly society, which the soul shall actually possess hereafter. Since I have changed my situation, I have found still greater cause of thanksgiving to the Father of all mercies. The family with whom I live, are Christians: and, I believe, the Almighty has been pleased to bring me to the knowledge of them, that I may want no means of improvement in that temper and conduct, which he requires in all his servants. My dear cousin! one half of the Christian world would call this madness, fanaticism, and folly: but are not these things warranted by the Word of God, not only in the passage I have cited, but in many others? If we have no communion with God here, surely we can expect none hereafter. A faith that does not place our conversation in heaven; that does not warm the heart, and purify it too; that does not, in short, govern our thought, word, and deed; will not obtain for us any spiritual blessing, here or hereafter. Let us see therefore, my dear cousin, that we do not deceive ourselves in a matter of infinite moment. The world will be ever telling us, that we are good enough; and the world will vilify us behind our backs. But it is not the world, which tries the heart; that is the preroga tive of God alone.-My dear cousin! I have often prayed for you behind your back, and now I pray for you to your face. I have known you so long, and so well, that I am not afraid of telling you that I sincerely wish for your growth in every Christian grace; in every thing that may promote and secure your everlasting welfare. I am obliged to Mrs. Cowper for the book; which arrived safe. I am willing to consider it as an intimation on her part, that she would wish me to write to her; and I shall do it accordingly. My circumstances are rather particular; they call upon my friends, those, mean, who are truly such, to take some little notice of me; and they will naturally make those, who are not such in sincerity, rather shy of doing it. To this I impute the silence of many with regard to me, who, before the affliction that befell me, were ready enough I to converse with me. Yours ever, William Cowper. LETTER XII. To Mrs. Cowper, of Park-house, near Hertford. My dear cousin, Huntingdon, March 11, 1766. I am much obliged to you for sending me Pearsall's Meditations; especially as it furnishes me with an occasion of writing to you. My friends must excuse me, if I write to none. but those, who lay it fairly in my way to do so: the inference I am apt to draw from their silence, is, that they wish me to be silent too. 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 whom I have lost, and all the connexions that are broken. She has a son at Cambridge, who is in all respects worthy of such a mother; and is the most amiable young man I ever knew. His natural and acquired endowments are very considerable; and as to his virtues, I need only say that he is a Christian. ought to be a matter of daily thanksgiving to me, that I am admitted into the society of such persons; and I pray God to make me, and keep me, worthy of them. It Your brother Martin has been very kind to me; having written to me twice, in a style, which, though it once was, to say the least, irksome to me, I now know how to value. I pray God to forgive me the many light things I have both said and thought of him and his labours. Henceforth, I shall consider him as a burning and a shining light; and as one of those who |