the spot, on another visit, said it is not certain that he was born
there, much less in the house marked with his name. Mr. W. was not
without the _esprit de corps_, even before his official dignity, and
took great interest in Savona, on account of Chiabrera, as appears in
the 'Musings near Aquapendente,' perhaps the most beautiful of these
Memorials of the Italian tour--'alas too few!' As he himself repeatedly
said of the journey, 'It is too late.' 'I have matter for volumes,' he
said once, 'had I but youth to work it up.' It is remarkable how in this
admirable poem meditation predominates over observation. It often
happened that objects of universal attraction served chiefly to bring
back to his mind absent objects dear to him. When we were on that noble
spot, the Amphitheatre at Nismes, I observed his eyes fixed in a
direction where there was the least to be seen; and, looking that way, I
beheld two very young children at play with flowers; and I overheard him
say to himself, 'Oh! you darlings, I wish I could put you in my pocket
and carry you to Rydal Mount.'

It was Mr. Theed, the sculptor, who informed us of the pine tree being
the gift of Sir George Beaumont. This incident occurred within a few
minutes after our walking up the Pincian Hill. And this was the very
first observation Mr. W. made at Rome.

It was a remark justly made on the Memorials of the Swiss Journey in
1820, that Mr. W. left unnoticed the great objects which have given rise
to innumerable common-place verses and huge piles of bad prose, and
which every body talks about, while he dwelt on impressions peculiar to
himself. As a reproach, nothing can be more idle and unmeaning. I
expected it would be so with these latter poems, and so I found it.
There are not more than two others which bring anything to my mind.

The most important of these is the 'Cuckoo at Laverna.' I recollect
perfectly well that I heard the cuckoo at Laverna twice before he heard
it; and that it absolutely fretted him that my ear was first favoured;
and that he exclaimed with delight, 'I hear it! I hear it!' It was at
Laverna, too, that he led me to expect that he had found a subject on
which he would write; and that was the love which birds bore to St.
Francis. He repeated to me a short time afterwards a few lines, which I
do not recollect among those he has written on St. Francis in this poem.
On the journey, one night only I heard him in bed composing verses, and
on the f