e hand,
From the love of my soul, with my tears it is shed,
As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead."

Her love for the people of Wales was not an unreciprocated love. Many of
them rushed forward to touch the posts of the gate through which the
poetess had passed; and when, three years later, she paid a visit to St.
Asaph, came and wept over her, and entreated her to make her home among
them again.

VIII.

WAVEETEEE.

Wavertree had its advantages, but it certainly had its disadvantages
too. She was brought into a scene where all her precious time might have
been absorbed in the trivialities of society. She was overwhelmed with
offers of service and marks of courtesy. All the gaiety of a large town
was open to her. Gladly would she, as one who had made her mark, have
been received on all hands. But consideration of both time and
inclination demanded that her life should be spent in a more retired
way. She had a great distaste to "going out." And so the frivolous soon
gave her up, and went their own way. Her dress was not rigorously
correct; she seemed to have motives and pursuits unlike theirs. And so
they did not desire her company any more than she found satisfaction in
theirs. In the society of those with whom she had no interest in common
she well describes her state as feeling herself more alone than _when_
alone. There was much to try her in the curiosity which prompted so many
to call upon the strange poetess; but she treated this experience in a
cheerful manner. She was pursued by albums, their possessors all anxious
to have something written on purpose for themselves. We can understand
her humorous appeal to a friend "to procure her a dragon, to be kept in
her courtyard."

The life at Wavertree was very different from that in Wales in many
respects. She had to face the cares and vexations of domestic life, now
that she lived alone in her own house. She had to bear her part in
general society. The change was not a palatable one. "How I look back
upon the comparative peace and repose of Bronwylfa and Rhyllon--a walk
in the hayfield--the children playing round me--my dear mother coming to
call me in from the dew--and you, perhaps, making your appearance just
in the 'gloaming,' with a great bunch of flowers in your kind hand! How
have these things passed away from me, and how much more was I formed
for their quiet happiness than for the weary part of _femme celebre_
which I am now