His own life was happy, and its story is singularly attractive. His feeble health saved him from many a rough conflict, and called forth the affectionate hospitality of Sir Thomas and Lady Abney. It was seemly that the non-juring Bishop Ken should find a home with a peer of the realm at Longleat, but Dr. Watts found an even more congenial refuge at Theobalds and at Abney Park. There are few pleasanter stories than that of Lady Huntingdon’s calling upon Dr. Watts, when he said to her, ‘Madam, you have come to see me on a very remarkable day. This day thirty years I came hither to the house of my good friend, Sir Thomas, intending to spend but a week under his hospitable roof, and I have extended my visit to thirty long years.’ ‘Sir,’ said his gracious hostess, Lady Abney, ‘what you term a long thirty years’ visit, I consider as the shortest visit my family ever received.’ If the world had dealt a little less kindly with the poet, it might have been all the better for his poetry, which lacks the vigour, the martial music, the glorious enthusiasm of Luther and of Charles Wesley. He was, it is true, not without at least one coarse and bitter adversary—Thomas Bradbury, a Nonconformist minister of some fame and more notoriety; who seems, without any special reason, to have regarded Dr. Watts as a suitable mark for his vehement and vulgar abuse. He sneeringly forbade ‘Watts’s _whims_’[93] to be sung in his congregation, and charged the saintly poet with ‘burlesquing’ the poetry of the most High God. He led, if he did not initiate, the charge of Arianism. Had Watts been as ready for a theological fray as John Wesley, or even John Fletcher, Bradbury would have had judgement without mercy. But Watts’s letters in reply to these reiterated accusations are models of Christian controversy, or rather of Christian remonstrance. Their last encounter was at a meeting where Watts’s feebleness made it difficult for him to make himself heard. ‘Shall I speak for you, Brother Watts?’ asked Bradbury. ‘Well, you have often spoken _against_ me,’ was the gently sarcastic reply. Bradbury’s malice can have done Watts little real harm, except that of establishing the suspicion in a good many minds that he leaned to Unitarianism—a charge which has been repeated to our own day. The mild and colourless character of many of Watts’s hymns made them favourites with Unitarian editors of a former time; but the author of Not all the blood of beasts On Jewish altars slain, and of When I survey the wondrous Cross, is not to be claimed as Arian, Unitarian, or anything other than an evangelical believer.