fit only for the reception of delicate flowers, but in which an oak tree has been planted; the roots of the strong tree expand, and the fair vase is shivered."

"I have lately met with an exquisite little book, a work upon the Classics, just published, by Henry Coleridge; it is written with all the fervour, and much of the rich imagination and flow of words that burn,' which characterise the writings of his celebrated relative."

"Some Quarterly Reviews have lately been sent to me, one of which contains an article on Byron, by which I have been deeply and sorrowfully impressed. His character, as there portrayed, reminded me of some of those old Eastern cities, where travellers constantly find a squalid mud hovel built against the ruins of a gorgeous temple; for alas! the best part of that fearfully mingled character is but ruin-the wreck of what might have been."

"I have been reading a great deal during all this gloomy winter, and have been charmed lately by an account of the life of my favourite musician Weber, in the Foreign Quarterly Review, with extracts from his letters. The flow of affectionate feeling in these -the love he everywhere manifests of excellence for its own sake-the earnestness and truth of heart revealed in all his actions-these things make up a character, like his own music, of perfect harmony. Is it not delightful, a foundation of gladness to our own hearts, when we are able to love what we ad

mire? I shall play the waltz, and those beautiful airs from Der Freischütz,' with tenfold pleasure after reading the memoir."

"I hope you will be as much amused at the Analysis of a Lady's Tear,' which I inclose for your edification, as I have been. Only imagine the tear to have been one shed at parting, and then can you conceive any thing so unsentimental?"

The inclosure was the following extract, cut out of a newspaper:-" Analysis of a Lady's Tear.-This was really effected by the celebrated Smithson, one of the fellows of the Royal Society, whose loss the past week has had to deplore. Nothing, it seems, eluded the grasp of this enquiring man, who, not content with operating on the common objects which nature had placed before him, presumed to approach the shrine of beauty itself, wherewith to satisfy his curiosity. He had analysed more than a dew-drop-a lady's tear! He caught the pearly treasure as it fell from its source, and on submitting it to his tests, discovered that it contained two separate salts.'

"Since I last wrote to you, I have received a visit from a remarkable person, whose mind is full, even to overflowing, of intelligence and original thought. It is Dr. the distinguished linguist, of whom I shall speak. I do not know when I have heard such a flow of varying conversation; it is like having a flood of mind poured out upon you, and that, too, evidently from the strong necessity of setting the current free, not from any design to shine or overpower.

I think I was most interested in his descriptions of Spain, a country where he has lived much, and to which he is strongly attached. He spoke of the songs which seem to fill the airs of the South, from the constant improvisation of the people at their work: he described as a remarkable feature of the scenery, the little rills and water-courses which were led through the fields and gardens, and even over every low wall, by the Moors of Andalusia, and which yet remain, making the whole country vocal with pleasant sounds of waters: he told me also several striking anecdotes of a bandit chief in Murcia, a sort of Spanish Rob Roy, who has carried on his predatory warfare there for many years, and is so adored by the peasantry, for whose sake he plunders the rich, that it is impossible for the government ever to seize upon him. Some expressions of the old Biscayan (the Basque) language, which he translated for me, I thought beautifully poetical. The sun is called, in that language, 'that which pours the day;' and the moon, the light of the dead.' Well, from Spain he travelled, or rather shot off-like Robin Goodfellow, who could

'put a girdle round about the earth

In forty minutes,'

away to Iceland, and told me of his having seen there a MS. recording the visit of an Icelandic Prince to the court of our old Saxon king, Athelstane. Then to Paris, Brussels, Warsaw, with a sort of open sesame' for the panorama of each court and kingdom.

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"A striking contrast to all this, was a visit I lately

paid to old Mr. Roscoe, who may be considered quite as the father of literature in this part of the world. He is a delightful old man, with a fine Roman style of head, which he had adorned with a green velvet cap to receive me in, because, as he playfully said, 'he knew I always admired him in it." Altogether he put me rather in mind of one of Rembrandt's pictures; and, as he sat in his quiet study, surrounded by busts, and books, and flowers, and with a beautiful cast of Canova's Psyche in the back-ground, I thought that a painter, who wished to make old age look touching and venerable, could not have had a better subject."

The occasional society of Mr. Roscoe, in such bright intervals as were admitted by his failing health (which frequently obliged him to pass months in comparative seclusion, though it never impaired his mental energies and cheerful benevolence), was one of the greatest enjoyments of Mrs. Hemans's residence near Liverpool. She never spoke of him but with affectionate deference, and had an honest pride in knowing that he appreciated her poetry, and took pleasure in having it read to him. It was during the present winter and spring that she applied herself with some diligence to the study of music, under the instruction of Mr. J. Zeugheer Herrmann, who, as she wrote, comes to me every week, and I should like him as a

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1 This is not the first instance of the attractions of a green velvet cap. In one of Alexander Knox's letters, speaking of the picture for which he was then sitting, he says-"Sir Thomas Acland would have me in my invalid dress-my green velvet nightcap had taken hold of his heart."

master exceedingly, were it not that I am sure I give him the toothache whenever I play a wrong note, and a sympathising pang immediately shoots through my own compassionate heart."

About the same time, she began to be sensible of a newly-awakened power of inventing airs, adapted to the words of some of her own lyrics. The spontaneous flow of this stream of melody, was a source of great delight to her, though she found some difficulty in the mechanical part of noting down, or what she called "caging," her musical fancies. In this task she was most kindly aided by Mr. Lodge, the accomplished amateur already alluded to; and to whom she was indebted for the symphonies and accompaniments of two of her songs, "Go forth, for she is gone," and "By the mighty Minster's Bell," which were published by Lonsdale and Mills.'

The following note may be applicable to that numerous class of hieroglyphical writers, who would do well to adopt the ingenious device of a certain French nobleman of the vieille cour:— "Par respect, Monsieur" (he wrote, or rather scrawled, to a person of equal rank with himself), "je vous écris de ma propre main; mais pour faciliter la lecture, je vous envoye une copie de ma lettre.". "I have the pleasure to inform you that you have attained a degree

1 The copyright of four other songs, also composed by Mrs. Hemans, was purchased by the late Mr. Power, not long before his death; but it is believed they have never been published. These were," The Wreck;" "Thou'rt passing from the Lake's green side;" (the Indian song from "Edith," in Records of Woman); "Death and the Warrior ;" and "Good Night."