of the voice of those whose writings had instructed or charmed me, and before whose ideal images I had bowed as in a sacred shrine. Too late was I, alas! for Miss Hannah More, and Sir Walter Scott, and Mrs. Hemans, and Coleridge. Over Southey had settled that rayless cloud, which lifted not till the pall enveloped him for his burial. Yet I was indulged in the privilege of the society of Wordsworth, and Maria Edgeworth, and Joanna Baillie—a rich payment for crossing the storm-tossed Atlantic. I was also favored with the acquaintance of Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Austin, the Countess of Blessington, Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, the venerable poet, Samuel Rogers, the philanthropic Mrs. Fry, and her distinguished brother, John Joseph Gurney, with others whose classic pens had delighted me when life was new. In Scotland I was so fortunate as to meet John Foster, the essayist, and Allan Cunningham; and in Paris to share for several weeks the hospitalities of the elegant Marchioness Lavalette, whom we proudly claim as a native of New England, by whom I was introduced, among other memorable personages of that courteous clime, to Count Roy, one of the most high-bred of the ancient noblesse, to De la Vigne, the lyrist, and the white-haired philosopher, Arago. Yet, as the descriptions of my European tour are embodied in a volume entitled "Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands," I will not indulge myself here in recapitulation.
But I must tell you of the jewels that, since remov-
