ed with gold; and the outline of her father's face
was embellished by the blue eyes and other delicate colors of her too
sensitive mother, (named, also, Edith,) who had been chosen for love
alone. The second daughter, Birtha, as I have said, was absent. The
third, Catherine, "between the woman and the child," had hazel eyes
and fine features, altogether with a delicate shape and complexion.
Cuthbert, the only son, was a boy of eleven or twelve, with an open,
expressive countenance.

I could not help remarking that in the names of each individual of
this pleasing group was heard that sound produced by the letter T
followed by its companion H, which is so difficult to the organs of
foreigners, but which, when tenderly pronounced, brings to mind
the down of a swan or the wing of a dove. Edith, Birtha, Catherine,
Cuthbert, Southey. If affection and innocence can insure felicity on
earth, the course of their lives must be smooth as waters where the
swan reposes; for certainly all their movements seemed innocent as
those of the dove.

The month of March was nearly half gone, when I reached Keswick,
by the road from Edinburgh; having passed, in my way, an old stone
building, pointed out to me as "Branksome Tower," known by the "Lay of
the Last Minstrel," who has sung the achievements of Scottish knights
and ladies. This village, at the foot of Skiddaw, though much visited
in the summer, has still all the wildness of nature. Daffodils were
in blossom when I walked there; and primroses, daisies and violets
opened, among the trees, upon every bank and grass plat, while the
mountains, clustering about Derwent Water, assumed such tints and
shades of purple and blue as are peculiar to a northern climate.

"Oh, man, thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear!"

All these pleasing images seemed to flit before me while putting into
rhyme the "Song of Prince Hoel,"--but before I could write it down,
tidings reached me of the illness, (perhaps incurable,) of him who
drew it from the oblivion of its native Welsh.

Death already has robbed me of so much, that I have become, as it
were, inured to grief, and accustomed, even in my least unhappy
moments to reflect on the incertitude of all earthly hopes and wishes.
I can now hear of losses with melancholy rather than with horror.

So much of the soul of Robert Southey has been dispersed about the
world that a translation to some other state of being, (now, before
time has given him any b