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philosophy, for it is the cry of men in the jaws of destruction.
It was pleasant to find the reverence inspired by this great and pure mind warmest near home.
Our landlady, in heaping praises upon him, added, constantly, ‘and
Mrs. Wordsworth, too.’
‘Do the people here,’ said I, ‘value
Mr. Wordsworth most because he is a celebrated writer?’
‘Truly, madam,’ said she, ‘I think it is because he is so kind a neighbor.’
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
At
Edinburgh we were in the wrong season, and many persons we most wished to see were absent.
We had, however, the good fortune to find
Dr. Andrew Combe, who received us with great kindness.
I was impressed with great and affectionate respect, by the benign and even temper of his mind, his extensive and accurate knowledge, accompanied by a large and intelligent liberality.
Of our country he spoke very wisely and hopefully.
I had the satisfaction, not easily attainable now, of seeing
De Quincey for some hours, and in the mood of conversation.
As one belonging to the Wordsworth and Coleridge constellation (he, too, is now seventy years of age), the thoughts and knowledge of
Mr. De Quincey lie in the past, and oftentimes he spoke of matters now become trite to one of a later culture.
But to all that fell from his lips, his eloquence, subtle and forcible as the wind, full and gently falling as the evening dew, lent a peculiar charm.
He is an admirable narrator;
