philosophy, for it is the cry of men in the jaws of destruction.
It was pleasant to find the reverence inspired by this great and pure mind warmest near home. Our landlady, in heaping praises upon him, added, constantly, “and Mrs. Wordsworth, too.” “Do the people here,” said I, “value Mr. Wordsworth most because he is a celebrated writer?” “Truly, madam,” said she, “I think it is because he is so kind a neighbor.”
“True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.”
EDINBURGH. — DE QUINCEY.
At Edinburgh we were in the wrong season, and many persons we most wished to see were absent. We had, however, the good fortune to find Dr. Andrew Combe, who received us with great kindness. I was impressed with great and affectionate respect, by the benign and even temper of his mind, his extensive and accurate knowledge, accompanied by a large and intelligent liberality. Of our country he spoke very wisely and hopefully.
I had the satisfaction, not easily attainable now, of
seeing De Quincey for some hours, and in the mood of
conversation. As one belonging to the Wordsworth
and Coleridge constellation (he, too, is now seventy
years of age), the thoughts and knowledge of Mr. De
Quincey lie in the past, and oftentimes he spoke of
matters now become trite to one of a later culture. But to
all that fell from his lips, his eloquence, subtle and
forcible as the wind, full and gently falling as the evening
dew, lent a peculiar charm. He is an admirable nar-
