338 HAMPSTEAD.
Whene er I think
Of rural Hampstead, and would fain recall Its lovely scenes, their brightest tissue fades, Like a dim picture, and those forms alone Stand forth and breathe, their lips still uttering sounds Like music.
Such eternity hath mind Amid the things that perish.
��Among the pleasant drives for which I was indebted to Mrs. B., of Portland Place, while passing a few days at her elegant mansion, was one to pay our respects to Miss Joanna Baillie, at Hampstead. This remarkable lady is above the common height, erect and dignified in her person, and of truly cordial manners. On my arrival, she had just returned from a long walk to visit the poor, and though past the age of seventy-six, and the day chill and windy, she seemed unfatigued, and even invigorated by the exercise. She resides with a beloved sister, several years older than herself, who still retains a beaming and lovely countenance.
With them was Rogers, the veteran poet, who has numbered his eightieth winter, but still keeps a per petual smile of Spring in his heart. His polished manners make him a favorite in the higher circles, while the true kindness of his nature is attractive to all. Many from my own land can bear witness to his polite attentions, and to the exquisite collection of the fine arts, which his house in London exhibits ; and
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