state of health and intellect, and resigned, though reluctantly, my intention of going to Keswick to see him. It was with deep sorrow that I heard how dark a cloud hung over that strong and creative genius, which has long communicated such delight on both sides of the Atlantic, and whose varied and versatile powers seem well characterized in a few of his own sweet lines, as
"The stream's perpetual flow,
That with its shadows, and its glancing lights,
Dimples, and threadlike motions infinite,
Forever varying, and yet still the same,
Like time towards Eternity, glides by."
A letter, the ensuing spring, from his wife, so widely known by her name of Caroline Bowles, as the writer of some of the truest and most pathetic poetry in our language, made me still more regret, that the short time which then remained to me in England rendered it impossible to visit Greta-Hall. This, and her entire self- devotedness to her suffering husband, induced me to turn with new interest to her volumes, of which an accomplished critic has said, that "no purer models of genuine home- feeling and language could be placed in the hands of a foreigner." The deep pathos of her "Pauper's Death-Bed" must be remembered by all who have read it; and how simple
