me, I should know you to be safe, and should never distress you with melancholy letters.

I feel myself well enough inclined to the measure you propose, and will shew to your new acquaintance with all my heart, a sample of my Translation, but it shall not if you please be taken from the Odyssey. It is a poem of a gentler character than the Iliad, and as I propose to carry her by a coup de main, I shall employ Achilles, Agamemnon, and the two armies of Greece and Troy in my service. I will accordingly. send you in the box that I received from you last night, the two first books of the Iliad, for that lady's perusal; to those I have given a third revisal; for them therefore I will be answerable, and am not afraid to stake the credit of my work upon them with her, or with any living wight, especially one who understands the original. I do not mean that even they are finished, for I shall examine and cross examine them yet again, and so you may tell her, but I know that they will not disgrace me; whereas it is so long since I have looked at the Odyssey that I know nothing at all about it. They shall set sail fromOlney on Monday morning in the Diligence, and will reach you I hope in the evening. As soon as she has done with them I shall be glad to have them again, for the time

draws near when I shall want to give them the last touch.

I am delighted with Mrs. Bodham's kindness in giving me the only picture of my Mother that is to be found I suppose in all the world. I had rather possess it than the richest jewel in the British crown, for I loved her with an affection, that her death, fiftytwo years since, has not in the least abated. I remember her too, young as I was when she died, well enough to know that it is a very exact resemblance of her, and as such it is to me invaluable. Every body loved her, and with an amiable character so impressed all her features, every body was sure to do so. I have a very affectionate, and a very clever letter from Johnson, who promises me the transcript of the books entrusted to him in a few days. I have a great love for that young man, he has some drops of the same stream in his veins that once animated the original of that dear picture.

upon

W. C.

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 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 ácceptable 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 com

pleted 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. I was thought in the days of my child-hood 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 irratibility, and a little I would hope both of his and of her- I know not what to

callit, 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 qut. 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 altogether 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