your conversation about me, and the Marchioness of Camberwell! Everybody will then revere and respect you -for the sake of your acquaintance!"

:

Turning to the news of the day, he adds :-" The world and I are this day rejoicing. Oh, sweet and romantic Spain! These news will kill me whichsoever way the event turns out if the Spanish plume and beaver succeed, I shall die of joy—if not, of grief. I had no hope this rising was to be so general. Yet this is all Whiggery, and outrage to your creed! Ah, if you had been only privately bred up a Whig by your mother, what congenial souls had we been! Had you loved freedom as I do! O, I had not myself been free! It is a good safeguard to my poor Matilda! I should have hired a post-chaise of John Sutton (maugre the expense!) and away with youbraving the prejudices of mankind, to live in Utopia by ourselves! that is to say-which, as a matter of course, would have risen and sprung out of your free Whig principles-if you had had no aversion to the elopement. But, as you are a rank Tory, I cannot possibly think of so decisive a measure; and, in the civillest manner, must mortify you, by saying that your aristocratic prejudices prevent me, and ever must, from having any kindness more romantic than that of a brother!

"As it is, however, we still agree as to Spain. Let us compare notes: I see in your fancy the charming pictures arise of a Spanish nobility, and a venerable prelacy, erecting their high and haughty heads amidst the standards of national independence. I like that too. I love to think of their majestic faces and picturesque cloaks and plumes, and their lofty language; spreading sentiments of glory and pride among their meanest vassals. I do doat on the fine bold Bishop who flourishes the crucifix about his head. He is a right apostle. I hear him chaunting his 'Deus

ÆT. 31.]

ADVENTURES-NOBLES AND PRELATES OF SPAIN. 149

praeliorum,' and the people repeating it in chorus. God will assuredly hear them. Oh, what is Buonaparte in conquest, compared with the dead bodies of such men, killed in such a cause! And now, here are my hopes, that what the French Revolution has failed in, the Spanish will achieve; and that we shall hear, in the language of Cervantes, all the great principles of British liberty laid down in the future writings of Spain; that they will become a free people, and have, like us, their Sydneys and Chathams have a king, for the sake of giving a pension or two to deserving characters!—While these dreams can be indulged-and, alas, they may prove dreams—let us each be happy in our own way of hoping. I dream of the people, and you of the chieftains! of the chieftains! . . . But if I had a good heart under my ribs, and had not a wife and two small children,' and a sweet society-such as the 'Marchioness's,' and yours in the village, from which it would be a very hard thing to part, I sometimes think I could almost venture to contrive to get a meeting with Napoleon, and brave all the racks and wheels of punishment!

"An instance of the groaning state of poor Switzerland was made known to me yesterday. A friend of mine pays an annuity of fifty pounds to a poor old widow, who lives in that country. She prays earnestly for an increase, for she cannot subsist along with the burthen of maintaining seven French soldiers! In the north of Germany it is said the people are literally dying of hunger.

T. C."

July 18.

I have been in town on a visit to one of Mrs. Campbell's relatives. Among the people we visited was the patriotic Lord S. His wife was an old sweetheart of mine, according to the jokes of my worthy friends. She was really not so; but, when

I knew her, she was about sixteen, remarkably sweet, natural, and sensible; and I really felt the cold, superior kind of liking which a grown person feels to an interesting young one. She has grown very tall, and keeps finely. Matilda and she have fallen in love at sight. I confess, the comparison of the finest Scotch women, with those educated in England, mortifies a little all my tartan nationality. I cannot disguise it; our belles have too much Scotchness about them. Another would suspect this to be sidelong flattery; but if I am known to you, you know it is the pure impression of conviction. I cannot exactly describe all the difference between Scotch and English women; but I do, involuntarily, acknowledge that Galilea has conquered us. The language and voices of the

latter have a tone of refinement. Their education is generally so much better; and yet, after all, this does not describe the difference. I am clear that a man born in the north has not a perfect idea of what, properly and generally speaking, a fine woman is, until he has seen the best of Englishwomen. The female spirit, brightened to perfection, is as unlike, and different from, the male mind, as a diamond is unlike gold. It is a great mistake to suppose that making the most of a woman's mind approximates her to the masculine. In the superior and refined pleasure of female friendship, a man finds so much of what he calls congeniality, that he mistakes the congeniality for likeness; but this is not exact similitude; it is relative sympathy, not identity of feeling. I think it is like the harmony of different colours, or of the same notes on different keys. . . . I once thought a little differently; and yet, though I change my mind, I deny that I am changeable, expound the paradox as you please. I don't care for all your criticisms on my allusions to the causes of attraction in those female friendships. Voice is one of them.

ET. 31.]

NATIONAL CHARACTER-PARTIALITIES.

151

A person's voice sways my heart, like a rudder governing a ship. I never yet could describe how much I think of people by their voices; and I should cover my face in confusion, if I thought any but a friend knew the vain little weak passion I-even I once cherished to have a fine, characteristic, manly voice!

Now I see I am hauling myself into a scrape, by alluding to the Scotchness of my Scotch friends, and thus hinting at my liking the English so well. I said a little about my dear Mrs. S-t once, and only once, and I assure you, in spite of it, I love her as well as yourselves. I really like all my Scotch friends endearedly. It is foolish to make comparisons. One's heart may expand a little, though not indefinitely. . . I do confess, after three years in Sydenham, it has seemed to me the sweetest spot in the world, in spite of many sorrows! It may be maturity of feeling, or it may be dotage. But that sweet gate of yours, and your dog Beau . . . and your fine mulberries, and the lovely upland, rising behind the garden, and your sister Mary's enchanting picture, and Caroline, and Mrs. Adams, have grown like romantic things to me now, though I am seeing them every day. Which is the best heart, that which doats on what it has hold of, or on the past? I know not how it is, but thinking of the past is a trial to me. The remembrance of friends, interwoven with bitter recollections, has a tinge of melancholy. I like the present, and why should I not enjoy it? ..

I

Of "Marmion" I think very much-almost as you do ; but I do not mean to think of poetry any more! mean to try to make money, and keep a good house over my head at Sydenham. I was on Sunday with Cowper's cousin, who is worthy of being his cousin, and told me many interesting anecdotes about him.

T. C.

Writing to another accomplished friend, he says:

LONDON, July 21.

I feel exceedingly feverish and in need of rest. I have been trying to read a book of philosophy to divert the dead watch of the night. The author says, "What is violent does not last long." Blockhead! If he had said that nothing lasts long that is not violent, he would have hit on one truth in his lifetime. Fire, as Count Rumford thinks, is immaterial, because it does not exhaust some bodies by ignition. You may heat iron a million of times to white heat, and it will still endure, and be susceptible of supporting heat. I think so of my feverishness and my frame. I once had hopes it would waste itself by its own strength. It does not waste itself; it refutes all the hackneyed maxims of violent things having short endurance. And yet, amidst these sleepless hours, how much reason I have to thank God for moments of dear and delightful happiness-thinking of my friends and the balm of friendship! I am not alone; I fly to that society which has the charm of creating happiness, and feel in imagination a portion of what is felt in their presence. When thoughts and steps are timed together, how welcome is existence with all its evils! Sweet and consecrated are some of those moments, when the round of a gravel walk and the common turn of conversation can inspire so many cheerful thoughts. And And yet it is selfish to talk of our conversational amusement, for I am sure it is all my own. I cannot imagine that you are amused with the half of my conversation, or untired, often, with the other half. Yet as you are always cheerful, I have the self-complacency to imagine you are now and then diverted. I know, my dear M., you have been a guardian angel to my house in my absence,