a prisoner; both he and Mrs. Unwin were feeling the want of exercise tell upon their health and spirits,—their house was not very convenient, and it was tumbling down, and Lady Hesketh urged them to change. A house at Weston Underwood, belonging to Mr. Throckmorton, *was vacant; there would be pleasant society in their friends; the house was offered to them on very liberal terms, and Lady Hesketh furnished the means of removal. In November 1786 they left Olney, after a residence of nineteen years.
Will it be believed that Newton again interfered in a most intolerable manner, accusing him of deviating into forbidden paths, and leading a life so unbecoming the Gospel as to grieve his London friends and amaze the people of Olney? He doubted more than ever, he said, whether he would ever be restored to Christian privileges again, and added that there was still intercourse between London and Olney, and that he should be sure to hear of any fresh evil doings. The sins which called forth this solemn warning were that he was, of course, more intimate with the Throckmortons, and that he sometimes even took a walk with Lady Hesketh, or by himself, on Sunday evenings.[1] It is only fair to Newton to suppose that some slanderous tongue had spread false reports; but he might at least have inquired before writing. Even Mr. Bull thinks that in this he "might have been a little precipitate."[2]
They had only been a fortnight at Weston when a sore trial fell upon them. William Unwin, while on a tour through the southern counties with Henry Thorn- ton, the son of their kind friend, sickened and died of typhus fever at Winchester. Of all Cowper's friends he had been the dearest. Of all the affectionate letters which Cowper wrote, those to Unwin are the most affectionate. He deserved to be loved. From the day that they met under the trees at Huntingdon, his affection had never known change. He is buried in the south aisle of Winchester Cathedral. Cowper's grief was great, not only for his own loss, but for the mother, the widow, and the orphans. But he was perfectly assured of his friend's gain, and the habitual composure of Mrs. Unwin also taught him to control his sorrow. His letters to his cousin, after the first outburst of sorrow, were as playful as ever, and he worked at Homer with unabated zeal. But the clouds were gathering again. A month later he had "had a little nervous feeling lately." In two months he had only done thirty lines of Homer. He fought hard against his terror, as his letters show, but in vain; and for a while—from January to June 1787—he was again in a terrible state. He again attempted self-destruction, and very nearly succeeded. He would see no one, nor have any one near him but Mrs. Unwin. He recovered almost suddenly, and immediately resumed his correspondence. His first letter was to a new friend, from that time onward a regular and valued one. This was Samuel Rose, a young man of twenty, who, being on his way from Glasgow University to London, turned aside to Olney,
