ght
be expected, friendships were formed with those who had tastes in
common. Amongst the number were Miss Baillie, Miss Mitford, Mrs. Howitt,
Miss Jewsbury, and Dean Milman. From her friends she sought sympathy
rather than praise. Always appreciative of words of encouragement, she
gave back good exchange in the artless way into which she entered into
the pursuits of her correspondents.

Her health continued to give great anxiety to her friends, and matters
were not improved by the unconquerable dislike of the patient to the
adoption of the necessary precautions and remedies. But in the midst of
all her suffering her imagination was busy. Compositions were dictated
to friends who sat by her bedside. Her amanuensis record--how the little
song "Where is the Sea" came to her like a strain of music whilst lying
in the twilight under the infliction of a blister.

In 1828 she published the _Records of Woman_, the work into which she
said she had put her heart and individual feelings more than in anything
else she had written. One verse amongst many others indicates the
pressure put upon her feeble frame by the intensity of her activity
of mind.

"Yet I have known it long;
Too restless and too strong
Within this clay hath been the o'ermastering flame;
Swift thought that came and went,
Like torrents o'er me sent,
Have shaken as a reed my thrilling frame."

A severe trial was at hand. The home must again be changed and the
beloved Wales left. The marriage of her sister and the appointment of
her brother to an official post were the immediate cause. In which
direction should she turn her steps with most advantage? The choice was
determined by the consideration that at Wavertree near Liverpool she had
several attached friends, that there she would meet with advantages for
the education of her boys and also with more literary communion
for herself.

The wrench from the "land of her childhood, her home, and her dead," was
a hard one. She wrote, telling her friends how she literally covered her
face all the way from Bronwylfa until her boys told her they had passed
the Clwyd range of hills. Then she felt that something of the
bitterness was over.

"The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear;
Farewell, and a blessing be with thee, green land!
On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air,
On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's fre