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of walking with any thing white or flower-colored. If I heard a dove or a wood-pigeon, I should be afraid of remarking it; I should lower my eyes, being a stickler on the side of legitimacy, and a doubter on many points.

"Now, although I began with no other object in view than to make inquiries about your health, I too am become, on this little piece of paper, as great a rambler as those whose rambles are less solitary.


Next month, my two sons, Arnold and Walter, make me a visit here at Bath. Perhaps good grave Walter will remain with me. Arnold, I doubt not, has attractions nearer the south than the north. Wherever they may be, it would be a sign of any man's sagacity to pull him out of bed by the heels. "W. S. L."

"Bath, October 18th, 1843.

"It is now ten days since Walter and Julia* left me. They stayed a single day with their grandmother at Richmond. Julia told me she had not forgotten how kind you and the Duchess de Guiche were to her, when she was a child, at Florence. They go to Brussels, Aix-la-Chapelle, Cologne, Wisbaden. All to be done in ten days, for fear of the snows meeting them on the Alps.

"I have entreated them to spend two entire days at Como, although the rest of the world (Naples included) will look little after. In passing through Switzerland, to look eternally at the sharp points of the Alps is as bad as reposing on the spine of a hedgehog. But then there is Vevay-there is Meillerie! scenes for which one has abandoned every other upon earth, and scarcely deigns to look up-at the balcony of Juliette.

"I detest the character of Rousseau, but I can not resist his eloquence. He had more of it, and finer than any man. Demosthenes's was a contracted heart; and even Milton's was vitiated by the sourness of theology.

"W. S. L."

"P.M., Bath, November 5th, 1844.

"Always kind and considerate. I have indeed had a touch of the rheumatism-a mere touch-not a blow-and the rheumatism, you know (or, rather, I hope you do not know), always comes with a heavy cudgel. It was caused by my imprudence in rising up in my bed to fix a thought on paper-night is not the time to pin a butterfly on a blank leaf. Four hot baths have now almost buoyed up this monster from oppressing me. Of its four legs, I feel only one upon me, and, indeed, just the extremity of the hoof. At Gore House I should forget it-there I forgot the plague when I had it. But Bath air is the best air in the world. In twenty minutes we can have three climates.

"I hope in the spring I may be able to pay you my respects. Where else can I find so much wit and so much wisdom? The rest of the earth may pretend it can collect (but I doubt it) as much beauty. Do not whisper a * The children of Mr. Landor.-R. R. M.


word of this to a certain pair of sisters. I hope I myself shall be in full bloom when we meet again. Indeed, I have little doubt of it-I have youth on my side. I shall not see seventy for nearly three months to come. I am very busy collecting all I have written. It may, perhaps, be published in another eight or ten months. Once beyond seventy, I will never write a line in verse or prose for publication. I will be my own Gil Blas. The wisest of us are unconscious when our faculties begin to decay. Knowing this, I fixed my determination many years ago. I am now plucking out my weeds all over the field, and will leave only the strongest shoots of the best plants standing. "W. S. L."

"January 1st, 1845.

"Before I open any other letter, I must thank you for the graceful lines you have written to me. They will keep my breast warmer, and adorn me more than the waistcoat. Nothing can be dearer to me than your recollection, accompanied by such invariable kindness. Every friend I have in the world knows how highly I esteem your noble qualities, and I never lose an opportunity of expatiating on them. You have left me nothing to wish but a favorable account of your health, and a few words about my other friends at Gore House. To-morrow I am promised your new novel. With your knowledge of the world, and, what is rarer, of the human heart, the man is glorified who enjoys your approbation; what, then, if he enjoys your friendship! Often and often, in this foggy weather, have I trembled lest you should have a return of the bronchitis. But I am credibly informed that the sun has visited London twice in the month of December. Let us hope that such a phenomenon may portend no mischief to the nation.

"To thee I call,

O Sun! to tell thee how I love the beams
That bring to my remembrance the blue skies
Of Italy, so brightened by thy smile.'

"It is well I have left off poetry, or certainly I should be as jealous of a certain young lady as any other young man is of the youth who sits beside W. S. L."


"December 18th, 1845.


"... I have been delighted with your last volume of The Idler in Italy.' There are, however, two oversights in the 255 pages-one is the printer's.

"In the first line, 'above two centuries' should be about twenty centuries.' "The Cimbri were Gauls-the Teutones were Germans, who joined them in the invasion of Italy. The name of these Cimbri is still retained by the Welsh, in Cimrai; and the Germans, including the Dutch, bear no other in their own country. Even the Italian word Tedesco shows its origin plainly; for Germano, which is often used by the English, means a wild duck. Query, are not ducks and Dutch of one and the same origin?

[In regard to observations in the work of Lady Bon paintings.]

"Guercino, in my poor opinion, is very inferior to Guido, Domenichino, Ludovico, and Annibal Caracci, and another great painter (who, however, paints often badly), Cavedone.* One of the finest pictures in the Gallery at Bologna is by him. I stood a long time before it to recover from the Murder of the Innocents,' for this is too real. Most things are real with me except realities.

"How very just is your remark on that picture in the Brera. That and the Cenci were both painted by some lady, perhaps the favorite scholar of Guido, but not in the time of a Cenci. Both are pleasing: neither is very

admirable as a work of art.

"In the Book of Beauty,' if I had not seen the verses of Miss Power (and beautiful ones they are) prefixed to the portrait of Miss Isabella Montgomery, nothing could ever have persuaded me that it is not Miss Power's. I doubt if any painter will produce so perfect a likeness of her. This is incomparably the most beautiful one in the whole volume. . I hope that, according to my orders, a copy of Fra Rupert' was sent for her to Gore House.

"W. S. L."

"August 28th, 1846.

Yesterday Colonel Jervis told me that Prince Louis Napoleon is here, and had done me the favor to mention me to-day; I will therefore leave my card at his hotel... .


“I feel I am growing old for want of somebody to tell me (charming falsehood) that I am looking as young as ever. There is a vast deal of vital air in loving words.

"Pray waft the breath of my earnest wishes and kindest remembrances round about all at Gore House. W. S. L."

"November 23d, 1846.

"On my return from Clifton, where I spent last week, I find on my table the 'Book of Beauty' and the 'Keepsake.' So anxious are some of my lady friends to read them, that I had only time to look at what came from the pen of those I most value and regard; but I could recognize in their new dresses the heroines of Byron's Burlington Arcade. Miss Garrow's exquisite poem was quoted in the Examiner.' Wonderful creature! pity that Byron did not live long enough to profit by her refined taste. I am too old to be a gainer by it; but it has been my fate, long before now, to be an admirer where I could be no gainer, luckless man! Are you quite resolved to close the 'Book of Beauty' forever? I am among the many who hope it may not be so.

"W. S. L."

* Cavedone, a great fresco painter, born in 1577, died in 1660.-R. R. M.

"November, 1848.

"I am beginning to read 'Sismondi on the Italian Republics.' It grieves me to think I never saw him while he was living near Pescia. He expressed to Miss Mackenzie and Mr. Hutton a great desire to know me. This is among the highest honors I have received in literature; for never was there an honester man, and seldom a wiser. It is only from such hands I could with complacency or pleasure receive distinctions.


And now he is gone, pure and true-hearted Sismondi !

"I hope these horrible fogs, which make incursions even into our own Elysian fields, have spared you. I see the Duc de Guiche is gone to Lord Shrewsbury's to meet the Duc de Bordeaux. How much livelier at Gore House, where he did not seem a day older than his uncle, D'Orsay.

"W. S. L."

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[In re Louis Napoleon.]

66 January 9th, 1849. Possibly you may never have seen the two articles I inclose. I inserted in the Examiner' another, deprecating the anxieties which a truly patriotic, and, in my opinion, a singularly wise man, was about to encounter in accepting the presidency of France. Necessity will compel him to assume the imperial power, to which the voice of the army and people will call him.

"You know (who know not only my writings, but my heart) how little I care for station. I may therefore tell you safely that I feel a great interest, a great anxiety for the welfare of Louis Napoleon. I told him if ever he were again in a prison I would visit him there, but never, if he were upon a throne, would I come near him. He is the only man living who would adorn one; but thrones are my aversion and abhorrence. France, I fear, can exist in no other condition. Her public men are greatly more able than ours, but they have less integrity. Every Frenchman is by nature an intriguer. It was not always so, to the same extent; but nature is modified, and even changed, by circumstances. Even garden statues take their form from clay.

"God protect the virtuous Louis Napoleon, and prolong, in happiness, the days of my dear, kind friend, Lady Blessington. W. S. L.

"I wrote a short letter to the president, and not of congratulation. May he find many friends as disinterested and sincere."

(No date.)

"When I had written my letter, it came into my recollection that I had somewhere written a few verses to Miss Garrow. I have been able to recover a copy, not having kept one myself."


"By whom, Aspasia, wilt thou sit?

Let me conduct thy steps, apart,
To her whose graces and whose wit

Had shared with thine Cleona's heart.

64 No more beneath Pandion's walls
The purer muses sigh in vain :
Departed Time her voice recalls,
To hear the Attic song again.




MR. FORSTER was born in Newcastle in 1812. He is indebted to the best of all patrons for his eminence in literature-his own sterling worth and talents, sound judgment, and solid understanding.

The rarest and most advantageous of all combinations-the union of common sense and great intellectual endowments— constitutes the power and peculiarity of Mr. Forster's abilities alike in literature and journalism. One is reminded, by his lucid, plain, trenchant, and forcible style of writing, of Cobbett's best manner, with a large infusion into it of literary taste and scholarship. If Cobbett had been a man highly educated, with sensibility, and that delicacy of organization which is essential to the development of a taste for art, a love of poetry, a longing after excellence of every sort in nature, or beyond its realms, and it was possible for him, thus constituted, to have retained his original, rough, intellectual vigor, his style would be found, perhaps, to bear a strong resemblance to that of Forster. If there be any thing to be desired in the latter, it is an admixture of vivacity of light wit and refined humor-to relieve the ponderous prose of subjects discussed with profound thought and gravity, and, when treated with irony, of too fine a sort for the generality of matte--of-fact people to find out in it any thing bordering on a joke. Pascal made himself master of the minds of his readers, while he amused their imaginations-le veritable maître du cœur, sait faire rire l'esprit.

A disciple of Lavater or Gall and Spurzheim could not encounter Forster in any society, or position in it, without being struck with his appearance, his broad and ample forehead, his

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