Of that wonderful frigate (see "Curse of Kehama,'
Which wafted fair Kailyal to regions of Brama,
And the venturous barks of Columbus and Gama.
But Columbus and Gama to you must resign a
Full half of their fame, since your voyage to China,
(I'm astonished no shocking disaster befel,)
In that swift-sailing first-rate-a cocoa-nut shell!

I hope, my dear H., that you touched at Loo Choo,
That abode of a people so gentle and true, a to do.

How calm must their lives be! -so free from all fears,
Of running in debt, or of running on spears!
Oh dear! what an Eden!-a land without money!
It excels e'en the region of milk and of honey,
Or the Vale of Cashmere, as described in a book,
Full of musk, gems and roses, and called "Lalla Rookh."

But of all the enjoyments you have, none would e'er be More valued by me, than a chat with Acerbi, Of whose travels, related in elegant phrases, I have seen many extracts, and heard many praises, And have copied (you know I let nothing escape), His striking account of the frozen North Cape. I think 'twas in his works I read long ago, (I've not the best memory for dates, as you know), Of a warehouse, where sugar and treacle were stored, Which took fire (I suppose being made but of board) In the icy domains of some rough northern hero, Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero. Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out, And in streams, just like lava, meandered about, You may fancy the curious effect of the weather, The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together. When my first for a moment had hardened my last, My second burst out, and all melted as fast; To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on, But I quite forget which of the elements won.

But a truce with all joking-I hope you'll excuse me,
Since I know you still love to instruct and amuse me,
For hastily putting a few questions down,

To which answers from you all my wishes will crown:
For you know I'm so fond of the land of Corinne,
That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts within,
And I read all that authors, or gravely, or wittily,
Or wisely, or foolishly, write about Italy;

From your shipmate, John Evelyn's, amusing old tour,
To Forsyth's one volume, and Eustace's four,
In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances
At the classical Eustace, and says he romances.

Pray describe me from Venice (don't think it a bore)
The literal state of the famed Bucentaur;

And whether the horses, that once were the sun's,
Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dingy bronze,
For some travellers say one thing, and some say another,
And I can't find out which, they all make such a pother.
Oh! another thing too, which I'd nearly forgot,
Are the songs of the Gondoliers pleasing or not?
These are matters of moment, you'll surely allow,
For Venice must interest all, even now.

These points being settled, I ask for no more hence,
But should wish for a few observations from Florence.
Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti

Are finished-if not 't is a shame for the city,
To let one for ages was e'er such a thing?.

Its entablature want, and the other its wing.

Say, too, if the Dove (should you be there at Easter,

And watch her swift flight, when the priests have released her),

Is a turtle, or ring-dove, or but a wood-pigeon,

Which makes people gulls, in the name of Religion?

Pray tell, if the forests of famed Vallombrosa

Are cut down or not, for this, too, is a Cosa
About which I'm anxious -as also to know
If the Pandects, so famous long ages ago,

Came back, (above all, don't forget this to mention)
To that manuscript library called the Laurentian.

Since I wrote the above, I, by chance, have found out,
That the horses are bright yellow brass, beyond doubt;
So I'll ask you but this, the same subject pursuing,
Do you think they are truly Lysippus's doing?

When to Naples you get, let me know if you will,
If the Acqua Toffana's in fashion there still,
For, not to fatigue you with needless verbosity,
'Tis a point upon which I feel much curiosity.
I should like to have also, and not written shabbily,
Your opinion about the Piscina mirabile;
And whether the tomb, which is near Sannazaro's,
Is decided by you to be really Maro's.

In June 1821, Mrs. Hemans obtained the prize awarded by the Royal Society of Literature for the best poem on the subject of Dartmoor. On this occasion, as on every other, her chief enjoyment of success was derived from the happiness it created in those around her. That "Fame can only afford reflected delight to a woman," was a sentiment she unceasingly felt and expressed; and she never was more truly herself than in writing to Miss Mitford. "Do you know that I often think of you, and of the happiness you must feel in being able to run to your father and mother with all the praises you receive." In the kind, approving eye," the " meek, attentive ear" of her own fond mother, she possessed a source of pure happiness, too soon, alas! withdrawn. When absent from her brothers and sister, almost the first thought that would occur to her, on occasions like the present, was a longing impatience for them to hear of her good VOL. I.7

fortune; and the tumultuous exultation of her boys, was a far dearer tribute than the praise of the mightiest critic. On hearing of the success of Dartmoor, she thus wrote to the friends who had been the first to communicate it to her.

2

"What with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost bewildered. I wish you had but seen the children, when the prize was announced to them yesterday. Arthur, you know, had so set his heart upon it, that he was quite troublesome with his constant inquiries on the subject. He sprang up from his Latin exercise and shouted aloud, 'Now, I am sure mamma is a better poet than Lord Byron!"1 "Their acclamations were actually deafening, and George said that the excess of his pleasure had really given him a headache.' The Bishop's kind communication put us in possession of the gratifying intelligence a day sooner than we should otherwise have known it, as I did not receive the Secretary's letter till this morning. Besides the official announcement of the prize, his despatch also contained a private letter, with which, although it is one of criticism, I feel greatly pleased, as it shows an interest in my literary success, which from so distinguished a writer as Mr. Croly, (of course you have read his poem of Paris,) cannot but be highly gratifying."

1It is scarcely necessary to remark, that the comparison originated solely with the boy himself.

2

George Willoughby Hemans, the eldest of her surviving sons, now a promising young civil engineer.

Mrs. Hemans was at this time occupied in the composition of her tragedy, The Vespers of Palermo, which she originally wrote, without any idea of offering it for the stage. The sanguine recommendations, however, of Mr. Reginald Heber, and the equally kind encouragement of Mr. Milman (to whose correspondence she was introduced through the medium of a mutual friend, though she had never the advantage of his personal acquaintance), induced her to venture upon a step which her own diffidence would have withheld her from contemplating, but for the support of such high literary authorities. Indeed, notwithstanding the flattering encomiums which were bestowed upon the tragedy by all who read it, and most especially by the critics of the green room, whose imprimatur might have been supposed a sufficiently safe guarantee of success, her own anticipations, throughout the long period of suspense which intervened between its acceptance and representation, were far more modified than those of her friends. this subdued tone of feeling she thus wrote to Mr. Milman :-" As I cannot help looking forward to the day of trial with much more of dread than of sanguine expectation, I most willingly acquiesce in your recommendations of delay, and shall rejoice in having the respite as much prolonged as possible. I begin almost to shudder at my own presumption, and, if it were not for the kind encouragement I have received from you and Mr. Reginald Heber, should be much more anxiously occupied in searching for any outlet of escape, than in attempting to overcome the difficulties

In