world, which, were I to designate it by my own experience, I should call a wilderness of beauty and of

sorrow."

"I believe it is only where the feelings are deeply interested, that the imagination causes such perpetual bitterness of disappointment. Do you remember St. Leon's dissatisfaction at the manner in which his daughters receive the tidings of his death? I begin to think that all imaginative persons are, to a certain degree, St. Leons, and that they expect what human nature is very seldom rich enough to afford."

"I have been reading Godwin's Cloudesley. It does not, I think, carry away the imagination with anything like the mighty spirit of his earlier works; but it is beautifully written, with an occasional flow of rich and fervent eloquence, reminding me of the effects he attributes to the conversation of his own old alchemist in St. Leon."

Early in the summer of 1830, Mrs. Hemans published her volume of Songs of the Affections, which was dedicated to her. revered friend, Sir Robert Liston. In the month of June, of the same year, she accomplished a project which she had long had at heart, of making a visit to the Lakes of Westmoreland. Her tremulous health, which had undergone many vicissitudes during the winter, needed repose and refreshment; her spirit was wearied out with the 'glare and dust of celebrity,' and she longed to 'flee away and be at rest,' for a season amongst the green hills, and beside the still waters. More than all, she

was attracted to that lovely land by the yet stronger spell exercised over her mind, by the prospect of immediate communion with Mr. Wordsworth, of whom she was daily becoming a more zealous disciple, and whose invitations had been kind and reiterated. Her son Charles was her companion on the journey to Rydal Mount; and the two other boys joined her as soon as she was established in a temporary abode of her own.

No words but those of her own letters can do justice to her impressions of society and scenery, which, by those who have once enjoyed them, can never be forgotten.

(

66

My nervous fear at the idea of presenting myself to Mr. Wordsworth, grew upon me so rapidly, that it was more than seven o'clock before I took courage to leave the inn at Ambleside. I had, indeed, little cause for such trepidation. I was driven to a lovely cottage-like building, almost hidden by a profusion of roses and ivy; and a most benignant-looking old man greeted me in the porch. This was Mr. Wordsworth himself; and when I tell you that, having rather a large party of visiters in the house, he led me to a room apart from them, and brought in his family by degrees, I am sure that little trait will give you an idea of considerate kindness which you will both like and appreciate."

"There is an almost patriarchal simplicity about him an absence of all pretension. All is free, unstudied

"The river winding at its own sweet will"— VOL. I. -19

in his manner and conversation.

There is more of impulse about them than I had expected; but in other respects I see much that I should have looked for in the poet of meditative life: frequently his head droops, his eyes half close, and he seems buried in quiet depths of thought. I have passed a delightful morning to-day in walking with him about his own richly shaded grounds, and hearing him speak of the old English writers, particularly Spenser, whom he loves, as he himself expresses it, for his "earnestness and devotedness."

*

"I must not forget to tell you that he not only admired our exploit in crossing the Ulverstone Sands, as a deed of "derring do," but as a decided proof of taste: the Lake scenery, he says, is never seen to such advantage as after the passage of what he calls its majestic barrier."

“I have been making you a little drawing of Mr. Wordsworth's house, which, though it has no other merit than that of fidelity, will, I know, find favour in your sight. The steps up the front lead to a little grassy mound, commanding a view always so rich, and sometimes so brightly solemn, that one can well imagine its influence traceable in many of the Poet's writings. On this mount he frequently sits all evening, and sometimes seems borne away in thought."

"I seem to be writing to you almost from the spiritland; all is here so brightly still, so remote from everyday cares and tumults, that sometimes I can hardly

persuade myself I am not dreaming. It scarcely seems to be the light of common day' that is clothing the woody mountains before me; there is something almost visionary in its soft gleams and ever-changing shadows. I am charmed with Mr. Wordsworth, whose kindness to me has quite a soothing influence over my spirits. Oh! what relief, what blessing there is in the feeling of admiration, when it can be freely poured forth! There is a daily beauty in his life,' which is in such lovely harmony with his poetry, that I am thankful to have witnessed and felt it. He gives me a good deal of his society, reads to me, walks with me, leads my pony when I ride; and I begin to talk with him as with a sort of paternal friend. The whole of this morning, he kindly passed in reading to me a great deal from Spenser, and afterwards his own Laodamia, my favourite Tintern Abbey, and many of his noble sonnets. His reading is very peculiar, but, to my ear, delightful; slow, solemn, earnest in expression more than any I have ever heard: when he reads or recites in the open air, his deep rich tones seem to proceed from a spirit-voice, and belong to the religion of the place; they harmonize so fitly with the thrilling tones. of woods and waterfalls. His expressions are often strikingly poetical; such as- I would not give up the mists that spiritualize our mountains, for all the blue skies of Italy.' Yesterday evening he walked beside me as I rode on a long and lovely mountain-path, high above Grasmere Lake. I was much interested by his showing me, carved deep into the rock, as we passed, the initials of his wife's name, inscribed there many years ago by himself; and the dear old man, like 'Old

Mortality,' renews them from time to time. I could scarcely help exclaiming Esto perpetua !'"

6

"It is delightful to see a life in such perfect harmony with all that his writings express

'True to the kindred points of Heaven and home!"

You may remember how much I disliked, and I think you agreed with me in reprobating, that shallow theory of Mr. Moore's with regard to the unfitness of genius for domestic happiness. I was speaking of it yesterday to Mr. Wordsworth, and was pleased by his remark, It is not because they possess genius that they make unhappy homes, but because they do not possess genius enough; a higher order of mind would enable them to see and feel all the beauty of domestic ties.' His mind, indeed, may well inhabit an untroubled atmosphere, for, as he himself declares, no wounded affections, no embittered feelings, have ever been his lot; the current of his domestic life has flowed on, bright, and pure, and unbroken. Hence, I think, much of the high, sculpture-like repose which invests both his character and writings with so tranquil a dignity."

"Mr. Wordsworth's kindness has inspired me with a feeling of confidence which it is delightful to associate with those of admiration and respect, before excited by his writings;—and he has treated me with so much consideration, and gentleness, and care!— they have been like balm to my spirit after all the fades flatteries with which I am blasée. I wish I had