s no more, when he died. Shakspeare, we
are told, had scarcely written a single play at that age. I hope, for
the sake of poets, you are proud of these men.

Lady Beaumont mentioned some time ago that you were painting a picture
from 'The Thorn:' is it finished? I should like to see it; the poem is a
favourite with me, and I shall love it the better for the honour you
have done it. We shall be most happy to have the other drawing which you
promised us some time ago. The dimensions of the Applethwaite one are
eight inches high, and a very little above ten broad; this, of course,
exclusive of the margin.

I am anxious to know how your health goes on: we are better than we had
reason to expect. When we look back upon this Spring, it seems like a
dreary dream to us. But I trust in God that we shall yet 'bear up and
steer right onward.'

Farewell. I am, your affectionate friend,

W. WORDSWORTH.

My sister thanks Lady Beaumont for her letter, the short one of the
other day, and hopes to be able to write soon. Have you seen Southey's
'Madoc'? We have it in the house, but have deferred reading it, having
been too busy with the child. I should like to know how it pleases
you.[27]

[27] _Memoirs_, vol. i. pp. 305--8. G.

* * * * *

PORTRAIT OF COLERIDGE: 'THE EXCURSION' FINISHED: SOUTHEY'S MADOC; &c.

_Letter to Sir George H. Beaumont, Bart_.

Grasmere, June 3d. 1805.

MY DEAR SIR GEORGE,

I write to you from the moss-hut at the top of my orchard, the sun just
sinking behind the hills in front of the entrance, and his light falling
upon the green moss of the side opposite me. A linnet is singing in the
tree above, and the children of some of our neighbours, who have been
to-day little John's visitors, are playing below equally noisy and
happy. The green fields in the level area of the vale, and part of the
lake, lie before me in quietness. I have just been reading two
newspapers, full of factious brawls about Lord Melville and his
delinquencies, ravage of the French in the West Indies, victories of the
English in the East, fleets of ours roaming the sea in search of enemies
whom they cannot find, &c. &c. &c.; and I have asked myself more than
once lately, if my affections can be in the right place, caring as I do
so little about what the world seems to care so much for. All this seems
to me, 'a tale told by an idiot, full of