nation of character which our friend subsequently exhibited. He had resided with Mr. Laver about eleven years, and had reached, or nearly so, the age of eighteen, when some restless feelings began to evince their existence in his mind. He was not discontented, neither was he altogether happy. He does not fully describe the nature of the restlessness which first began to work in his mind. But I suspect, from the mention he makes of a reproof Mr. Laver gave him, that the real cause was a disrelish of that sort of restraint under which he was held by the moral and exemplary conduct of his master. It is probable his mind, at this period, could not brook the control to which, as a boy, he had quietly submitted, or for the exercise of which there had been, in his younger years, less occasion. I have no doubt that, as a lad, he was high spirited and untractable. At the period of which we are speaking he had, however, lost none of his affection for Mr. Laver, nor was Mr. Laver's towards him in the slightest degree impaired. But John Cooke began to show a great propensity to profane swearing; his friend Mr. Laver had often reproved him for it, for though by no means a pious character, he was observant of morality, and paid some attention to his church. But the subject of this Memoir had arrived at that age, when the vices of an evil nature begin first to throw off restraint and fear-when selfwill ventures to assume a loftier mien, and to erect itself into an attitude of defiance. This may well be described as the most critical period of human life, particularly as it regards the character; for then, the independence of manhood outstrips, or more properly, precedes both its wisdom and experience, and the character presents the unnatural combination of manly notions with juvenile powers-the rashness and indiscretion of boyhood, with the rights claimed by maturer years-and in this middle state, the party can neither be treated as a man nor as a boy. This period in Mr. Cooke's life would unquestionably have been marked by more violent outbreakings of vice, perhaps by a hasty and passionate disruption from his kind master, had not strong affection, an affection in many respects more influential than he would have felt towards a father, kept his evil propensities under check. However he might dislike the moral restraint his master wished to exercise, he could not do anything unkind or disrespectful to the individual, who had acted towards him with as much affection and care as if he had been his own child. Though Mr. Laver's reproofs tended to make the lad

uneasy, yet I suspect they had a very salutary effect upon his character; and most probably were the means, in connexion with a circumstance which occurred about this period, of inducing him to leave off his profane swearing. An individual with whom he was acquainted being engaged at cards, frequently lost the game; in anger he threw down his cards, and imprecated a dreadful judgment on his eyes, as of no manner of use to him. He was shortly after observed to rub his eyes, as though they were painful. The next morning he was stone blind!-but his suffering produced no change. Mr. Cooke, in relating this anecdote, says: "for myself, I was to be numbered on this occasion among the proofs, of which Wicked Will. himself is such an eminent instance, that no judgment of itself can convert the heart. This is the work alone of special grace. I can look back with admiration at that mercy, but for which, I had been added to the number of warnings, instead of being spared to recount them.” Congregational Magazine, Feb. 1818, p. 98.

It is certain, that some impression of the immorality of swearing, was made upon the mind of John Cooke, by the reproofs of Mr. Laver, in connexion with this singular occurrence. But it went no further. As to religion, he had imbibed the too common notions, that the occasional repetition of the Lord's Prayer and the Belief, would atone for all his sins. Perhaps it was well, at least in reference to his preservation from gross vice, that something like a pharisaical spirit was now gaining the ascendency. For the scenes to which he was now approaching, would certainly have proved ruinous to a mind less under the influence of shame and moral pride, or destitute of the more efficient counteraction of real religion. In the absence of these higher principles, it was well for him, that the good instructions of his friend and master had produced an ambition to be esteemed both moral and religious.

This was the state of his feelings, when his friends in London meditated for him, whether with a sincere or sinister intention will hereafter appear, a separation from Mr. Laver. Through the death of his father, who had expired in a fit of intoxication, his uncle, Merchant, of whom mention has before been made, became his guardian, and took upon him the management of his affairs. His uncle, accordingly, soon broached to him the subject of a removal from his present situation. The ostensible reason was, the importance of witnessing other modes of farming, and the anxiety of his uncle

and aunt for his improvement. The proposal was at first rejected. He could not entertain the thought of a separation from Mr. Laver. But, after a short time, circumstances seemed to favour the proposal. Some of his youthful companions and himself disagreed. Several alarming murders had been committed in the neighbourhood of the village, which spread a great alarm, and he began to wish for a removal. The flattering promises of his uncle, and the hopes of advancement in life, conspired with these circumstances, and at length he consented that his uncle should mention the subject to Mr. Laver; for, after all, his feelings were so tender upon this point, that he felt it impossible himself to propose a separation.

This business was accordingly arranged between his uncle and Mr. Laver. The appointed time arrived for his removal from this peaceful abode, which had, indeed, proved to him a happy asylum. His uncle came down, to take him under his own immediate protection, and to obtain a final settlement of accounts between Mr. Laver and his youthful landlord. Mr. C. records, with expressions of strong respect and admiration, the strict integrity, and affectionate generosity, of his friend Mr. Laver. He says, " in reckoning up our parting accounts, he proved himself to be, what I had always esteemed him, a man of a generous and faithful disposition. What visible and distinguishing marks of God's mercy towards me, when I cared not for him! How kindly he turned the wheel of Providence in my favour! How did he open and shut his hand, to deal favourably with me."

But during his uncle's stay at Latchinden, which appears to have been protracted during two or three weeks, an occurrence took place, which served to give him the first insight into the character of the people with whom he was now to be connected, and who must inevitably have an influence upon his future prospects. He had left his uncle's house in London, at an age when he was incapable of forming any opinion of his character; and as to his other relatives at Colchester, he had neither seen them nor heard of them, since the period of his mother's funeral, which had taken place when he was a mere child. It was, however, now suggested by his uncle, that before they took their departure for London, they should pay a visit to his aunt and her family, who lived at Colchester. Both Mr. Laver and John Cooke were indisposed to shew her that mark of attention, as she had taken no interest whatever in his welfare since the decease of his mother.

But the entreaties of his uncle at last prevailed, and he consented to go. The journey was fixed for the sabbath, and they accordingly both started on horseback for Colchester. But his uncle soon began to set his nephew a most pernicious and dangerous example, by stopping frequently on the road to drink. The sober and correct habits in which the youth had been brought up, kept him, however, from imitating his uncle's example. Happily for both, the youth had so much more prudence than the man: for, long before the end of the journey, the uncle became so inebriated, as to be incapable of managing his horse. At length both horse and rider fell. For some time the unhappy man was quite speechless, but at length he recovered himself, and, after changing horses with his nephew, was again placed in the saddle, his face lacerated and bleeding, and his limbs sadly bruised. It appears from Mr. Cooke's remark, that this unhappy man had taken an oath to his wife (the other maternal aunt of John Cooke), not to take the young man to Colchester; and, probably, the uneasiness of his conscience was one cause that impelled him to drown his recollection in excess of liquor. At length, after much difficulty, they arrived at Colchester. The relatives who resided there had little interest in the youth, but they had an eager desire to enjoy his property; and they accordingly feigned pleasure at the interview.

Although John Cooke was not yet arrived at the age of nineteen, and had seen little of the world, or the wiles of wicked men, yet he was endowed with so much good sense, and sterling honesty himself, that he readily penetrated the plots and snares of his covetous and unprincipled relations. The accident by the way, operated, he says, as a warning to him, as to the kind of people to whose guidance he bad now committed himself. "If I had not had this bitter drop, I should most likely have had a poisonous draught." During the week of their visit, many baits appear to have been tried to entrap the unprotected youth, by means of female cousins, who were used as instruments to inveigle him entirely into the power of the artful and base woman, who called him nephew. But at this period God impressed his imagination with an unusual fear of death. He thought every day his end was near; and this broke the power of temptation. His suspicions of his aunt's base intentions had been awake from the first, and every project to ruin him, which his good sense or his moral feeling enabled him to defeat, while it confirmed these suspicions, excited an unslumbering

vigilance, as for his life. At length they brought him to the brink of a pit, as he says, "more dangerous, devilish, and deep." The more cruel, as it was entirely concealed till he was in it.

A person was introduced to him, under the name of a relation, who shewed him great attention, and professed for him an uncommon regard. In the course of a very few days, he formed such an intimacy with our young friend, as to induce him to take a ride out with him a few miles into the country, engaging to return with him by supper-time. John Cooke, suspecting no evil in this proposal, which bore the face of nothing more than an innocent recreation, assented. But after being taken a circuitous and most intricate route, and much further than he had any intention of going, he was introduced to a public-house, late at night, which proved to be the haunt of persons engaged in smuggling. He soon discovered that the friend, who had inveigled him into the snare, was regularly engaged in illicit traffic. In such society as this, the youth, accustomed only to the rural occupations of his farm, felt alarmed. His companion continued drinking and carousing with those he called his friends, till they were all nearly intoxicated. They did what they could to entangle him with the same snare, but he had wisdom enough not to surrender himself to the power of drink. At length, scenes of wantonness were presented to his youthful eye, which cannot be described. Every effort was employed to entice him to his destruction, but a sort of guard seemed to be placed around him to keep him, unpractised as he was in the ways of men, from the snares of these workers of iniquity. His disgust at what he beheld, kept him safe from the allurement of flagrant vice. He urged his companion who had brought him to the house to leave it, and lead him back again. But he refused. It was his element, and there he determined still to remain. The situation of the young man was almost desperate. He knew not what course to take. To remain in the house, was like dwelling in the precincts of an infernal region-to depart was perilous-the hour was late-the night was dark-the road wholly unknown to him. The difficulty of reaching Colchester without his treacherous guide, appeared almost insurmountable. But even this attempt, dangerous as it might prove, he deemed preferable to remaining with the infamous persons who were using every effort to make him their prey. At length he took his horse, resolving to make the attempt of escaping from this