“prince of the English mesmerisers;” and he has the fine instinctive nature you may suppose from that. He is a man of about thirty; in the fulness of his powers; tall, and finely formed, with a head for Leonardo to paint; mild and composed, but powerful and sagacious; he does not think, but perceives and acts. He is intimate with artists, having studied architecture himself as a profession; but has some fortune on which he lives. Sometimes stationary and acting in the affairs of other men; sometimes wandering about the world and learning; he seems bound by no tie, yet looks as if he had relatives in every place.
I saw, also, a man, — an artist, — severe and antique in his spirit; he seemed burdened by the sorrows of aspiration; yet very calm, as secure in the justice of fate. What he does is bad, but full of a great desire. His name is David Scott. I saw another, — a pupil of De la Roche, — very handsome, and full of a voluptuous enjoyment of nature: him I liked a little in a different way.
By far the most beauteous person I have seen is Joseph Mazzini. If you ever see Saunders’ “People’s Journal,” you can read articles by him that will give you some notion of his mind, especially one on his friends, headed ‘‘Italian Martyrs.” He is one in whom holiness has purified, but somewhat dwarfed the man.
Our visit to Mr. Wordsworth was fortunate. He is
seventy-six; but his is a florid, fair old age. He walked
with us to all his haunts about the house. Its situation
is beautiful, and the “Rydalian Laurels” are
magnificent. Still, I saw abodes among the hills that I
should have preferred for Wordsworth; more wild and
