blood to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of God."* It was to this passage, which contains so lucid an exposition of the method of salvation that, under the Divine blessing, the poet owed the recovery of a previously disordered intellect, and the removal of a load from a deeply-oppressed conscience he saw by a new and powerful perception how sin could be pardoned, and the sinner be saved; that the way appointed of God was through the great propitiation and sacrifice upon the cross; that faith lays hold of the promise, and thus becomes the instrument of conveying pardon and peace to the soul.† Unable to endure excitement, he lived, from this time, a life of comparative seclusion, employing himself in literary pursuits, but with little thought of the place his name would take in English literature, and with as little apprehension, perhaps, of the return of that fearful malady with which his fame as a poet was to be thenceforth associated. Yet this was the Divine appointment, and his sweetest songs were sung in that night of mental darkness, in the gloom of which he lingered at intervals to the end of his life. What a night that was, what a gloom of thick darkness his own letters written during the time show us. His insanity took the form of what is called religious melancholy. He was possessed with the idea that he was an abandoned reprobate, shut out from the mercy of God in this world, and from all hope of salvation in the next. In a letter to Mr. Newton, he describes the state of mind in which poetry became a solace, and, subsequently, a necessary employment. For twelve years, he says, his mind had been occupied in the contemplation of the most distressing subjects. Despair," he adds, "made amusement necessary, and I found poetry the most agreeable amusement. God gave me grace, also, to wish that I might not write in vain. Accordingly, I have mingled much truth with much trifle, and such truths as deserved at least to be clad as well and as handsomely as I could clothe them." Again, writing to the same valued friend on the receipt of his sermons on the Messiah, he says— 66 "I shall be happy (and when I say that I mean to be understood in the fullest and most emphatical sense of the word) if my frame of mind shall be such as may permit † Grimshaw's Life of Cowper. *Rom. iii. 25. me to study them. But Adam's approach to the tree of life, after he had sinned, was not more effectually prohibited by the flaming sword that turned every way, than mine to its great antitype has been now these thirteen years, a short interval of three or four days alone excepted. For what reason it is that I am thus long excluded, if I am ever again to be admitted, is known to God only. If the ladder of Christian experience reaches, as I suppose it does, to the very presence of God, it has nevertheless its foot in the abyss. And if Paul stood, as no doubt he did, in that experience of his to which I have just alluded (2 Cor. xii. 1-4), on the topmost round of it, I have been standing, and still stand, on the lowest, in this thirteenth year that has passed since I descended. In such a situation of mind, encompassed by the midnight of absolute despair, and a thousand times filled with unspeakable horror, I first commenced an author." Yet it was during these thirteen years he wrote the Olney Hymns, and, indeed, all his most valuable works, including "The Task." Dark and drear beyond all conception was his night, the black and dark night which surrounded him, which was within him; yet, as if that darkness had been the very "shadow of the Almighty" (Psa. xci. 1), he poured forth his lays, now deep and solemn like the peal of a cathedral organ, now tender as the melody of a harp. And in his own words, written probably in some happier moment, be aptly describes his songs in the night— "The calm retreat, the silent shade, With prayer and praise agree, There, if Thy Spirit touch the soul, Oh! with what peace, and joy, and love, There, like the nightingale, she pours Nor asks a witness of her song, Nor thirsts for human praise." Others of a similar character tell, too, of gleams of light, however brief, which broke through this midnight of his soul; such, for example, as the beautiful one, so full of the spirit of praise, beginning, "I will praise Thee every day;" and another," Hark! my soul, it is the Lord,” and containing that well-known verse— "Mine is an unchanging love, How full of deep thought and of consolation is the hymn, "God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform." With what beauty does he apply to the Christian life the figure of a vessel in a storm, "The billows swell, the winds are high," and what loving trust is expressed in the hymn beginning, "O Lord, my best desires fulfil." 66 But although a ray might now and then pierce through the heavy clouds which overhung the sky, the darkness of his spirit was never destined to be wholly removed. To the close of his life he remained in the gloom of this terrible night. A yet further trial awaited him, which tended greatly to increase his constitutional malady. Mrs. Unwin, his faithful friend and companion for many years, whose tender and watchful care had so often soothed his spirits and alleviated the gloom of his prison-house, was fast passing away, her faculties enfeebled, her life at its lowest ebb. Hoping some benefit for her from change of residence, Cowper left Weston. On his journey he conversed pleasantly with his nephew, Mr. Johnson; and this conversation, says his biographer," was almost his last glimmering of cheerfulness." In 1796 Mrs. Unwin died. The deepest darkness before the dawn was drawing near. On the 20th of March, 1799, he wrote his last poem, "The Castaway." English literature probably contains no more affecting piece of spiritual autobiography than these stanzas furnish. The wonderful force and vigour of the poem itself, as contrasted with the enfeebled health and despairing mind of the writer, make it interesting as a study in psychology, as well as in connection with the life of a man so honoured and beloved. The concluding stanzas are, in this light, deeply touching. "I therefore purpose not, or dream To give the melancholy theme No voice Divine the storm allay'd, When, snatch'd from all effectual aid, But I beneath a rougher sea, And 'whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he." The next year he died. The last words he was heard to utter were in reply to an offer of some refreshment, "What can it signify?" and then he gently passed away. May we not, in such a case as his, imagine "the moment after death." What a stupendous change! Darkness, which no ray even of heavenly light seemed able to dispel; a fixed persuasion that he was abandoned by God to utter destruction; an absolute inability, the result of his malady, to recognise even the possibility of deliverance; a mind self-torturing, perverting, with the ingenuity of insanity, the most glorious consolations of the gospel, so as to make them new instruments of torture, and not a sign or a word even to the last to indicate hope! This, on this side of the river. But what beyond? What light, what joy, what triumph must have been his! To reach the home from which he had believed himself, by a mysterious Divine decree, eternally banished! To behold the Saviour whose mercy he thought he should never share! To be welcomed by the Father's voice, he who had thought himself an outcast for ever! To find his shattered bark brought triumphantly into port, with glad songs of praise, who had called himself the castaway! One might fancy that his friend Newton's hymn had been written in anticipation of a deliverance so glorious as this : "In vain my fancy strives to paint The moment after death, One gentle sigh their fetters breaks, Her mansion near the throne. Faith strives, but all its efforts fail Thus much (and this is all) we know, Have done with sin, and care, and woe, WHAT BETTER IS A CHRISTIAN THAN ANY BODY ELSE? "ROOM for one here, sir," said the guard of a railway train which had just drawn up at a station between one of our great northern towns and London. "Quick as possible, if you please," he added, decidedly, but respectfully. "Train's late-we're due at the next station." So saying, he opened the door of a carriage which was filled, with the exception of one seat, by a party of young men who were starting, for a three weeks' holiday, to the continent. The gentleman addressed was a quiet, thoughtful-looking man, apparently on the verge of forty, who might have passed for a solicitor or a bank-agent, though scarcely for a clergyman. He was none of these; for he had been engaged abroad in commercial pursuits, and had been compelled to return to England for the sake of his health. His name was Senior. "Bother!" exclaimed two or three of the party, all of whom had been especially wishful to have the carriage entirely to themselves. There was no alternative, however; and having courteously expressed a wish that he should not incommode them, he took his seat in a corner of the carriage, and after a few moments he produced a book from his satchel, and began to read. "Any objection to a smoke, sir?" said one of the party, Mr. Brice, who seemed to be looked up to very much by the rest, and who had received sundry hints from several of them, in the shape of significant glances, to ask the question. 66 Well, sir," replied Mr. Senior, "I am not a smoker, and I can't say I ever enjoy smoking; but I should be sorry to interfere with your enjoyment; and I dare say, if the windows be opened, I shall not find much inconvenience from it." In common civility, seeing his evident reluctance, they ought to have denied themselves the pleasure. Indeed, they did hesitate; but after a few minutes two or three of them produced their cigars and their fusees, and began to smoke, and the rest soon followed the example. Mr. Senior made no complaint; but, though it was quite plain that he felt the annoyance, he bore it patiently. There was this good result, however, from his doing so, that the young men were favourably disposed by it to |