to the public, it may appear, when it appears, with more advantage." 64

In another letter to the same dear kinswoman he says, "Running over what I have written, I feel that I should blush to send it to any but thyself. Another would charge me with being impelled by a vanity from which my conscience sets me clear, to speak so much of myself and my verses as I do. But I thus speak to none but thee, nor to thee do I thus speak from any such motive. I egotize in my letters to thee, not because I am of much importance to myself, but because to thee both Ego, and all that Ego does, is interesting. God doth know that when I labor most to excel as a poet, I do it under such mortifying impressions of the vanity of all human fame and glory, however acquired, that I wonder I can write at all." 65

His greatest pleasure was in the society of those whom he loved. When Rose's visit in the summer of this year was postponed from June till August, he said to him, “A month was formerly a trifle in my account; but at my present age, I give it all its importance, and grudge that so many months should yet pass in which I have not even a glimpse of those I love, and of whom, the course of nature considered, I must ere long take leave forever.-But I shall live till August." 66 When Lady Hesketh arrived, he said, "This is the third meeting that my cousin and we have had in this country; and a great instance of good fortune I account it, in such a world as this, to have expected such a pleasure thrice without being once disappointed." 67 And after both had departed, at the commencement of winter, his observation was, "When a friend leaves us in the beginning of that season, I always feel in my heart a perhaps, importing that we have possibly met for the last time, and that the robins may whistle on the grave of one of us before the return of

But it was his lot, happy indeed in this respect, to form new friendships as he advanced in years, instead of having to mourn for the dissolution of old ones by death. During

64 April 14, 1789. 65 June 6, 1789.
67 To Mr. Rose, July 23.

66 June 20.

68 Jan. 3, 1790.

seven-and-twenty years he had held no intercourse with his maternal relations, and knew not whether they were living or dead; the malady which made him withdraw from the world seems, in its milder consequences, to have withheld him from making any inquiry concerning them; and from their knowledge he had entirely disappeared till he became known to the public. One of a younger generation was the first to seek him out. This was Mr. John Johnson, grandson of his mother's brother, Roger Donne, who had been rector of Catfield, in Norfolk. The youth was then a Cambridge student, and made the best use of a Christmas. vacation by seeking and introducing himself to his now famous kinsman. Cowper's latent warmth of family feeling was immediately quickened; and he conceived an affection for "the wild, but bashful boy," as he called him, which increased in proportion as he knew him more, and which was amply requited.

Young Johnson had some poetical ambition at that time; he brought with him a manuscript poem of the pastoral kind, entitled the Tale of the Lute, or the Beauties of Audley End, and he produced it as coming from Lord Howard, with his lordship's request that Cowper would revise it. Cowper read it attentively, was much pleased with some parts, equally disliked others, and told him so "in such terms as one naturally uses when there seems to be no occasion to qualify or to alleviate censure." - It then came out that the youth was himself the writer,- that Lord Howard not approving it altogether, and some friends of his own age having, on the contrary, commended it highly, he had come to a resolution of abiding by the judgment of the author of the Task a measure to which Lord Howard had indeed advised him. Upon his expressing afterwards, by letter, some degree of compunction for this artifice, Cowper replied, "Give yourself no trouble on the subject of the politic device you saw good to recur to, when you presented me with your manuscript. It was an innocent deception; at least it could harm nobody save yourself-an effect which it did not fail to produce; and since the punishment followed it so closely, by me at least it may very well be forgiven. You ask how I can tell

that you are not addicted to practices of the deceptive kind. And, certainly, if the little time that I have had to study you were alone to be considered, the question would not be unreasonable; but in general a man who reaches my years finds

'That long experience does attain
To something like prophetic strain.'

"I am very much of Lavater's opinion, and am persuaded that faces are as legible as books, only with these circumstances to recommend them to our perusal, that they are read in much less time, and are much less likely to deceive us." With regard to the poem itself, he gave him this golden advice Remember that, in writing, perspicuity is always more than half the battle. The want of it is the ruin of more than half the poetry that is published. A meaning that does not stare you in the face is as bad as no meaning, because nobody will take the pains to poke for it."

This ardent youth took with him, on his departure, several books of Homer to transcribe, volunteering his services in this way; he took also a letter of introduction to Lady Hesketh, who was as much pleased with him as Cowper had been. He had observed with what affection Cowper spoke of his mother; the only portrait of her was in possession of her niece, Mrs. Bodham, who had been a favorite cousin of Cowper's, in her childhood; and upon the youth's report of his visit on his return home, this picture was sent to Weston, as a present, with a letter from his kinswoman, written in the fulness of her heart. It was replied to with kindred feeling, thus:

MY DEAREST ROSE,

TO MRS. BODHAM.

Weston, Feb. 27, 1790. Whom I thought withered, and fallen from the stalk, -but whom I find still alive nothing could give me greater pleasure than to know it, and to learn it from yourself. I loved you dearly when you were a child, and love you not a jot the less for having ceased to be so. Every creature that bears any affinity to my mother is dear to me, and you, the daughter of her brother, are but one remove distant

from her: I love you, therefore, and love you much, both for her sake and for your own. The world could not have furnished you with a present so acceptable to me, as the picture which you have so kindly sent me. I received it the night before last, and viewed it with a trepidation of nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I should have felt, had the dear original presented herself to my embraces. I kissed it, and hung it where it is the last object that I see at night, and, of course, the first on which I open my eyes in the morning. She died when I completed my sixth year; yet I remember her well, and am an ocular witness of the great fidelity of the copy. I remember, too, a multitude of the maternal tendernesses which I received from her, and which have endeared her memory to me beyond expression. There is in me, I believe, more of the Donne than of the Cowper; and though I love all of both names, and have a thousand reasons to love those of my own name, yet I feel the bond of nature draw me vehemently to your side. was thought in the days of my childhood much to resemble my mother; and in my natural temper, of which at the age of fifty-eight I must be supposed to be a competent judge, can trace both her, and my late uncle, your father. Somewhat of his irritability; and a little, I would hope, both of his and of her, I know not what to call it, without seeming to praise myself, which is not my intention, but speaking to you, I will even speak out, and say good nature. Add to all this, I deal much in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, the Dean of St. Paul's, and I think I shall have proved myself a Donne at all points. The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you all.

I account it a happy event that brought the dear boy, your nephew, to my knowledge; and that, breaking through all the restraints which his natural bashfulness imposed on him, he determined to find me out. He is amiable to a degree that I have seldom seen, and I often long with impatience to see him again.

My dearest cousin, what shall I say in answer to your affectionate invitation? I must say this, I cannot come now, nor soon, and I wish with all my heart I could. But I will tell you what may be done, perhaps, and it will answer to

us just as well: you and Mr. Bodham can come to Weston, can you not? The summer is at hand; there are roads and wheels to bring you, and you are neither of you translating Homer. I am crazed that I cannot ask you all together, for want of house-room; but for Mr. Bodham and yourself we have good room, and equally good for any third, in the shape of a Donne, whether named Hewitt, Bodham, Balls, or Johnson, or by whatever name distinguished. Mrs. Hewitt has particular claims upon me; she was my playfellow at Berkhamstead, and has a share in my warmest affections. Pray tell her so! Neither do I at all forget my cousin Harriet. She and I have been many a time merry at Catfield, and have made the parsonage ring with laughter. Give my love to her. Assure yourself, my dearest cousin, that I shall receive you as if you were my sister, and Mrs. Unwin is, for my sake, prepared to do the same. When she has seen you, she will love you for your own.

I am much obliged to Mr. Bodham for his kindness to my Homer, and with my love to you all, and with Mrs. Unwin's kind respects, am,

My dear, dear Rose, ever yours,

W. C.

P. S.-I mourn the death of your poor brother Castres, whom I should have seen had he lived, and should have seen with the greatest pleasure. He was an amiable boy, and I was very fond of him.

Still another P. S.-I find, on consulting Mrs. Unwin, that I have underrated our capabilities, and that we have not only room for you, and Mr. Bodham, but for two of your sex, and even for your nephew into the bargain. We shall be happy to have it all so occupied.

Your nephew tells me, that his sister, in the qualities of the mind, resembles you; that is enough to make her dear to me, and I beg you will assure her that she is so. not be long before I hear from you.

Let it

. Upon receiving this portrait of his mother, Cowper composed the most beautiful of his minor poems which he tells us he had more pleasure in writing than any

a poem