vhom he tenderly loved, and to whom, fter reading Mrs. Greville's prayer for ndifference, he had addressed a copy of erses, which conclude with the following eautiful stanzas : "Let no low thought suggest the prayerOh! grant, kind Heaven, to me, Long as I draw ethereal air, Sweet sensibility! Where'er the heav'nly nymph is seen, With lustre-beaming eye, A train, attendant on their Queen, The jocund Loves in Hymen's band, And gen'rous Friendship hand in hand, The gentle Virtues, too, are join'd The Arts come smiling in the close, The marble breathes, the canvass glows, 'Still may my faltering bosom cleave To suff'rings not my own, 'So Pity shall take Virtue's part, And fashioning my soften'd heart, This artless vow may Heaven receive, So may the rosy-finger'd hours Lead on the various year, And ev'ry joy, which now is yours, p. 56, 57. And suns to come, as round they wheel, Your golden moments bless, With all a tender heart can feel, Or lively fancy guess." But the sensibilities of the poet had pervaded and usurped the time claimed by the dry and disgusting tasks of the lawyer, and the love of the muse had been scrupulously jealous of all attention to acquirements, always injurious to her empire over the human intellect, and frequently subversive of it. Dr. Memes, with the severity of a task-master, or rather of a pedagogue, will admit "neither the plea of sensibility, nor an alleged tendency to constitutional melancholy, as extenuations in the present instance." He calls aloud for the rod, and, as he lays it on, cries out between every strike, "these, these are the consequences, of a youth and manhood misspent!" and then turning round to the poor boys, trembling on their several forms, he adds, "To conceal this (Cowper's idleness and waste of time) would be to forego the benefit of a striking example to the young, that a manly, self-denying application, while it invigorates the whole character, will render a profession, at first most repugnant to the feelings, both agreeable, and the mean of honourable success." We have heard this very pithy sentiment in nearly the same words, more than a hundred times, during our youth, from a certain worthy gentleman, as he laid down the birch which he had been very vigorously brandishing. Such men can see no difference between the Greek grammar and Homer; they cannot comprehend the literary wealth which Cowper had collected, and which was afterwards to become a rich capital of delight and instruction to the moral and religious world, but they must fall foul on him for not possessing, on a particular occasion, a store of comparative rubbish, which his delicate mind was little adapted either to pick up or to retain. No, this unfortunate deficiency of our poet, and its lamentable result, afford us, instead of "the best proof of the prudence with which his father had selected his profession," a dreadful testimony of the shortsightedness of the man, who, in his attention to the worldly gold and grandeur of the legal profession, entirely overlooked the more brilliant and more valuable ore of his son's intellect, and consequently condemned him to unmerited disappointment and bitter distress. No sooner was this prospect of prosperity opened to the unhappy bard, than he felt, all at once, a consciousness of his incapacity to fulfil the duties of it. He wrote to his uncle requesting that, instead of the clerkship of the committees, he might be nominated to the journals, which was of far less value, but required less legal erudition. The exchange having been made with some difficulty, and much to the disquiet and displeasure of the General, Cowper set about preparing himself for the employment. He was led to expect an examination before the bar of the House, touching his fitness for the office. This was a source of instant alarm. It was necessary that he should visit the office of the journals daily, in order to qualify himself for the strictest scrutiny. His whole frame was convulsed with apprehension. He felt that his nerves would not sustain him during such examination, and he describes the sensation which the idea occasioned him-as an incipient insanity,-which it in reality was. The following extract is from Cowper's own narrative: My continual misery 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 position of mind, I attended regularly at the office, where, instead of the soul upon the rack, the most active spirits were essentially necessary for my purpose. I expected no assistance from any one, all the inferior clerks being under the influence of my opponent; accordingly I received none. The journal books, indeed, were 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. 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."—p. 69. consciousness of death that was upon ba Throughout the narrative which the p has himself given of his truly afflicting estdition at this period, there is a melanch interest that leaves us not a moment to tum to the imperturbable doctor, who accom panies it with a string of apophtheus against which it is impossible to say any thing, but that they are out of their place It is unfortunate that Cowper's narrative is not given separately, and therefore canna very easily be separated from his biogn pher's comments. "Now came the grand temptation-the point is which Satan had all the while been urging m dark and hellish purpose of self-murder. 1 per more sullen and reserved, fled from all society, ern from my most intimate friends, and shut myfy in my chambers. Being reconciled to the appris sion of madness, my only fear being that my s would not quit me time enough to excuse my apperance at the bar of the House of Lords, I began to b reconciled to the apprehension of death, though fr merly, in my happiest hours, I had never been s to glance a thought that way, without shuddering if the idea of dissolution. I now wished for it, and found myself little shocked at the idea of procuring it myself."-p. 73. About a week before the time appointed for his appearance at the bar of the bo of lords, the miserable bard purchased a phial of laudanum, which he kept concealed about his person. A letter in the newspapers, which he read at a coffee. house, struck him as being intended to satirize his appointment to an office for which he felt himself so little qualified. He resolved instantly upon self-murder. Previous to the assemblage of Parliament in the subsequent autumn, Cowper past some time at Margate, with his cousins, and began to recover his spirits, but the dread of the examination was not to be banished. He describes his reflections on awaking in the morning as "horrible and full of wretchedness." We have scarcely patience with the cool complacency with which Dr. Memes challenges us to deny that the anguish which the afflicted bard suffered was blameable. What does he mean? We are not prepared to say that pain, either mental or bodily, is so subjected to the will as to be considered a moral agent, liable to either praise or condemnation. But the doctor is a complete stoic, and can stop to lecture with common-place morality, upon the writhings of a species of mental torture, with which he has not the slightest sympathy. "A little manly exertion," says our persevering philosopher, "could have given no great pain even at first, while every day would have rendered the pain less, and finally set care at defiance for life." How little can such a lecturer be aware of the acute sensitiveness of an intellect—sore, raw, inflamed, tremblingly alive at the apprehension of the slightest from the text of the biographer, but the touch. The nerves were lacerated, and the very thought of exertion was agony. In October 1763, Cowper returned to London, and revisited the journal-office, the scene of his ineffectual labour, and felt all the urgency of necessity for exertion, and all the despair of success. He stood devoid of mental energy; a mortal numbness was upon his brain: he felt as if his soul was dead within him, and he wished anxiously that his body was dead also, -that he might wholly cease from that "Flinging down the paper," he says, “I rushed hastily out of the room, directing my steps towards the fields, where I intended to find some house to die in, or, if not, to poison myself in a ditch, when I should meet with one sufficiently retired.".... Fe fore I had walked a mile in the fields, a thong struck me that I might yet spare my life-that I bad nothing to do but to sell what I had in the Fund, (which might be done in an hour) go on board ship. and transport myself to France." Of the following extract, in which we have a scene which awfully displays the insanity which had obtained a complete ascendancy over a mind so naturally lucid, delicate, and correct, much is necessary conclusion is from Cowper's rative "But no sooner had Cowper returned to the busi of men's traffic-to the scene of his former SOCtions-than sinful thoughts also returned. Ing himself liable to interruption in his chambers, be now exchanged the design of poisoning for a d by drowning. Ordering a coach, he dnre, in this frame of mind, to the Tower Wharf; and aph cumstances interposed to save one who had thanded himself. The tide was low, and on the varf, whe he had resolved to cast himself into the river, porter watching some goods. The least bi deter a mind conscious of evil intention, but th ere real obstructions. Getting into the coach, which thought he had just quitted for ever, and pulling pall the blinds, he determined upon drinking the udanum in this situation. After many abortive tempts, made during the interval, in which he felt se phial as it were swayed away from his lips, as if y an invisible hand, he once more reached the emple, half dead with anguish, and stupified by the imes of the drug, and some drops that had been wallowed in this internal struggle. Alighting and astening to his chambers, he prepared resolutely to uish the work of the enemy of his soul. Locking oth the outer and inner doors of his apartment, he ot into bed half undressed, and poured the laudanum ato a small basin, placed within reach upon a chair. In this situation, shuddering with horror at the hought of what he was about to perpetrate, he lay for ome time, bitterly reproaching himself for cowardice nd folly, yet still overruled by an inward voice, which seemed to sound in his ear,- Think what you re doing! Consider, and live!' 'The "At length, with desperate intent, he extended his and to the deadly draught; his fingers lost all ower, and could not lay hold. I might still have nade a shift,' such are his words, with both hands, lead and lifeless as they were, to have raised the asin to my mouth, for my arms were not at all affected. But this new difficulty-the torpid conraction of his extremities, struck him with something ike reverence and wonder as a divine interposition. While he lay musing on these better thoughts, he heard a key turned in the lock of the outer chamber door, and his laundress's husband entered. presence even of an infant, is a safeguard in the hour of temptation,' says Locke. This interruption saved Cowper. He got up, bid the basin, and dressed himself. But again he was left alone, to renew the dreadful conflict with the adversary. This time, in all probability, the deed would have been accomplished, since the whole afternoon was passed in solitude, and without interruption. But the mercy of God interposed, by representing the enormity of his crime in so strong a light, that, in a temporary indignation, Cowper snatched up the basin, as soon as the attendant disappeared, poured the laudanum into a vessel of water, and threw the whole out of the window. "The remorse was but transitory, and, in fact, seems to have had reference rather to the manner than the intent of self-murder. The rest of the day was spent in a stupid insensibility, and the sense of guilt having passed away, crime again recurred as the only possible deliverance. This was the last day previous to his appearance before the House, and a report had even been circulated among his friends, that he had resolved to brave the examination. One of the most intimate of these called upon him in the evening; they spent some time in cheerful conversation. His friend departed, in the hope that the report was well founded; and Cowper, as he left his chambers, said in his heart-'I shall see thee no more.' "The sequel is best given in his own words:'I went to bed, as I thought, to take my last sleep in this world. The next morning was to place me at the bar of the House, and I determined not to see it. I slept as usual, and awoke about three o'clock. Immediately I arose, and, by the help of a rushlight, found my penknife, took it into bed with me, and lay with it for some hours directly pointed against my heart. Twice or thrice I placed it upright under my left breast, leaning all my weight upon it; but the point was broken off square, and would not penetrate. In this manner, time passed till the day began to break. I heard the clock strike seven, and instantly it occurred to me that there was no time to be lost. The chambers would soon be opened, and my friend would call to take me with him to Westminster. Now is the time, thought I-this the crisis! -no more dallying with the love of life. I arose, and, as I thought, bolted the inner door of my chambers, but was mistaken; my touch deceived me, and I left it as I found it. My preservation, indeed, as it will appear, did not depend upon that incident; but I now mention it, to shew that the good providence of God watched over me, to keep open every way of deliverance, that nothing might be left to hazard. "No hesitating thought remained; I fell greedily to the execution of my purpose. My garter was made of a broad scarlet binding, with a sliding buckle, heing sewn together at the end. By the help of the buckle I made a noose, and fixed it about my neck, straining it so tight, that I hardly left a passage for my breath, or for the blood to circulate; the tongue of the buckle held it fast. At each corner of the bed was placed a wreath of carved work, fastened by an iron pin, which passed up through the midst of it. The other part of the garter, which made a loop, I slipped over one of them, and hung by it some seconds, drawing up my feet under me, that they might not touch the floor; but the carved work slipped off, and the garter with it. I then fastened it to the frame of the tester, winding it round, and tying it in a strong knot. The frame broke short, and let me down again. The third effort was more likely to succeed. I set the door open, which reached within a foot of the ceiling, and, by the help of a chair, I could command the top of it; and the loop being large enough to admit a large angle of the door, was easily fixed so as not to slip off again. I pushed away the chair with my foot, and hung at my whole length. While I hung there, I distinctly heard a voice say three times, 'Tis over!' Though I am sure of the fact, and was so at the time, yet it did not at all alarm me, or affect my resolution. I hung so long, that I lost all sense-all consciousness of existence. "When I came to myself, I thought myself in hell; the sound of my own dreadful groans was all that I heard; and a feeling like that produced by a flash of lightning just beginning to seize upon me, passed over my whole body. In a few seconds, I found myself fallen, with my face on the floor. In about half a minute, I recovered my feet, and, reeling and staggering, stumbled into bed again. By the blessed providence of God, the garter, which had held me till the bitterness of temporal death was past, broke, just before eternal death had taken place upon me. The stagnation of the blood under one eye, in a broad crimson spot, and a red circle about my neck, shewed plainly that I had been on the brink of the grave. Soon after I got into bed, I was surprised to hear a noise in the dining-room, where the laundress was lighting a fire. She had found the door unbolted, notwithstanding my design to fasten it, and must have passed the bed-chamber door, while I was hanging on it, and yet never perceived me. She heard me fall, and presently came to ask me if I were well; adding, she feared I had been in a fit. I sent her to a friend, to whom I related the whole affair, and despatched him to my kinsman at the coffee-house. As soon as the latter arrived, I pointed to the broken garter which lay in the middle of the room, and apprized him also of the attempt I had been making. His words were,' My dear Mr. Cowper, you terrify me, to be sure-you cannot hold the office at this rate-where is the deputation?" I gave him the key of the drawer where it was deposited; and his business requiring his immediate attendance, he took it away with him; and thus ended all my connection with the Parliament House." "-pp. 76-80. We omit the learned biographer's observations upon this truly terrific occurrence, because we think they were not required by the interests of religion, which the doctor conceives himself to be so urgently called upon to vindicate. It was quite sufficient for him to point out, as indeed he has done very correctly, that religion, as a principle of conduct, was little known to Cowper at that period, and possessed no apparent influence over his thought. Not until this event had roused serious reflections in the mind of the poet, was his attention called to the concerns of his soul; but he now listened to the salutary instruction of the Rev. Martin Madan, his cousin, with earnestness, and with the tears of deep humility and contrition. "He urged," says Cowper, in his narrative," the necessity of a lively faith in Jesus Christ; not an assent only of the understanding, but a faith of application, an actual 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, but a very sincere one, and such as the blessed God, in his due time, was pleased to answer." But the disease was not eradicated by these spiritual applications. It was seated in the brain, some of the physical functions of which were constitutionally disordered. On the forenoon of the day after his interview with his cousin, he experienced the attack in his brother's presence. "If it were possible," these are his own words, "that a heavy blow could light upon 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; while, at every stroke, my thoughts and expressions became more wild and incoherent." It is astonishing that, with this fact from the sufferer himself, Dr. Memes should for a moment have thought there was any occasion to vindicate religion from the ridiculous charge of having produced the insanity of the poet of Christianity. If religion is at all to be named in connexion with this dreadful affliction, we shall find it assisting and strengthening the recovery of his intellect. His meditations on the gospel were continual, and they, not unfrequently, were uttered in poetic strains. Only two of his compositions have been preserved. The idea of the following is from Rev. xxi. 5, "Behold, I make all things new." "How blest thy creature is, O God, When, with a single eye, He views the lustre of thy word, Through all the storms that veil the skies, Struck by that light, the human heart, A barren soil no more, Sends the sweet smell of grace abroad, Where serpents lurk'd before. The soul, a dreary province once, Feels a new empire form'd within, The glorious orb, whose golden beams He started from the goal, Has cheer'd the nations with the joys His orient rays impart; p. 89. But, Jesus! 'tis thy light alone Can shine upon the heart." With this we shall take leave of these volumes. The few incidents of which the outline of the life of Cowper consists are known to most of our readers, and the admirers of the poet will find no just reason to be dissatisfied with the present biographer and editor, although we are of opinion that the Translation of Homer is spoken of in terms much beneath its merits, and that there is still room for a critical examination of the works and genius of an author who will be popular in every part of the globe where Christianity is known, and where the English language is spoken. REVIEW.-The Duties of Men. By Silvio Pellico, Author of " My Ten Years' Imprisonment;" "Francesca da Rimini ;" and other Works; translated from the Italian by Thomas Roscoe, Author of "the Landscape Annual." Longman, & Co. London. 1834. THIS small work is the production of a man who has sustained a severe martyrdom for his virtuous and intelligent patriotism, and it is now presented, in our own language, to the British public, by Mr. Thomas Roscoe, who, in a life of the calmminded and amiable author, has manifested a congeniality of spirit. We owe much to the taste and discernment with which Mr. R. has enriched our romantic literature from the captivating volumes of Italian fiction, as well as for the critical accuracy with which he has edited our native works of a similar class; but he comes now before us with a far higher claim to the regard of the friends of true religion, and of those who, in the peaceable and beneficent progress of knowledge, perceive the gradual improvement of the poli tical and social condition of mankind. It is not, we are well aware, in scientific knowledge, nor in an intimate acquaintance with the policy, the interests, or the civil history of states, that we are to look for any ntinuous amelioration of the human race. "The ardent and penetrating mind of 'ellico became early aware that no durable Food-no real improvement in social and political institutions-had followed in the rain of those violent and blood stained evolutions recorded in the annals of our *ace. Hence he derived his well-known repugnance to all violent measures; nor was this founded in reason alone: to his natural gentleness, his noble feelings, and poetical temperament, wise and conciliatory principles were far more congenial. He felt that his country had been long sufficiently advanced in knowledge and civilization to deserve a milder and happier form of government, but he strongly advocated the principle of conciliation in all he said and did-in his poetical, and in his prose writings-in private and in public; yet neither his blamelessness of life and principles, the power of knowledge, nor the progress of civilization, availed to save him, and his noblest fellow-countrymen, from the rage of political persecution. The utter powerlessness of these moral weapons, sharpened as they were by clear-sighted reason, by justice, and by love of independence, when placed in array against the hordes of ignorance and irreligious barbarism, frequently recurred to his mind during his solitary prison hours, and led him to reflect, long and deeply, on the subject of man's nature, and the causes which produced so much corruption and unhappiness in his individual, his social, and his political relations. had beheld the futility of that wisdom, that national intelligence, though combined with 2D. SERIES, NO. 42.-VOL. IV. He the utmost devotedness of spirit, derived and all other virtues, back to their primeval |