sented 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 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. I 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, I 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 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." It is a great satisfaction, in reading the life of Cowper, and especially his letters, to believe, from what we find there, that he really enjoyed almost an average *Cowper's mother was the daughter of Roger Donne, Esq., of Ludham Hall, Norfolk. share of happiness after all; though alternating with seasons of such intense mental suffering, that only when we overlook that genial affection which was the light of his existence, and which is seldom unreturned; when we overlook his peaceful exemption from worldly strife; his lively appreciation of the charms of nature, as well as of the refined and social courtesies of life; above all, when we overlook that goodness of heart which is its own reward, and that spiritual converse with happy and holy beings, which is the privilege of those who seek their enjoyment in loving and serving God, it is only then that we look upon Cowper as the most afflicted and unfortunate of men. There have not been wanting some who have ascribed his seasons of mental suffering to something gloomy and fanatical in the nature of his religious views. But is it not more reasonable to suppose that such constitutional tendency to melancholy would seize upon the darkest and most discouraging aspects of religion, as well as of everything connected with the inmost feelings of the soul? A mind in such a state was, in fact, capable of admitting no other views where religion was the subject of consideration. It was incapable of hope. And with strong religious convictions utterly di vested of all hope, what is there left but horror and despair ? Of those who are disposed to blame Cowper's religion for his unhappiness, it might be asked, what would he have been without it? In all probability the victim of some suicidal act. And then, in the cessation of each attack, what was there but religion to soothe and heal a wounded spirit so gentle and so sensitive as his? What was it, in reality, but his religion, which made him at other times so cheerful and so happy a man, so warm in his affections, so benevolent in his kindly feelings, so refined in his enjoyments, and so exalted as well as pure in all the aspirations of his gentle but noble spirit? But even admitting that religion was almost more to Cowper than to other men, it is impossible not to lean towards the belief that the support and the consolation derived from this source might, according to human calculation, have been attained with less suffering, had there been a kind and judicious mother to watch over and direct the tendencies of the poet's character in the early stages of his experience. Passing over one of those youthful attachments which fall in with the usual course of human life, but which, in his case, must have especially required the judicious intervention of some female friend, we find him under his first great effort, about to step into the arena of public life, trembling on the verge of madness, from causes which none but a mother could have fully understood. Most men would have exulted in the opportunity which then lay before him of pushing his fortunes, as people are wont to call it. But between exultation and despair there is often a very narrow step, down which those whose nature is too sensitive are apt to slip, even at the very crisis when success might have been secured by one bold onward movement. Nor is it those alone who are incapable of ambition, or who do not estimate the full value of success, who are apt to take this backward step at the most critical moment. There is such a thing as a |