ch hits your fancy, but the effect of which you
are unable to account for. There is then no sympathy, but an uneasy
craving after it, and a dissatisfaction which pursues you on the way,
and in the end probably produces ill humour. Now I never quarrel with
myself, and take all my own conclusions for granted till I find it
necessary to defend them against objections. It is not merely that you
may not be of accord on the objects and circumstances that present
themselves before you--these may recal a number of objects, and lead
to associations too delicate and refined to be possibly communicated
to others. Yet these I love to cherish, and sometimes still fondly
clutch them, when I can escape from the throng to do so. To give way
to our feelings before company, seems extravagance or affectation; and
on the other hand, to have to unravel this mystery of our being at
every turn, and to make others take an equal interest in it (otherwise
the end is not answered) is a task to which few are competent. We must
"give it an understanding, but no tongue." My old friend C----,
however, could do both. He could go on in the most delightful
explanatory way over hill and dale, a summer's day, and convert a
landscape into a didactic poem or a Pindaric ode. "He talked far above
singing." If I could so clothe my ideas in sounding and flowing words,
I might perhaps wish to have some one with me to admire the swelling
theme; or I could be more content, were it possible for me still to
hear his echoing voice in the woods of All-Foxden. They had "that fine
madness in them which our first poets had;" and if they could have
been caught by some rare instrument, would have breathed such strains
as the following.

"----Here be woods as green
As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet
As when smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet
Face of the curled stream, with flow'rs as many
As the young spring gives, and as choice as any;
Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells,
Arbours o'ergrown with woodbine, caves and dells;
Choose where thou wilt, while I sit by and sing,
Or gather rushes to make many a ring
For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love,
How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove,
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies;
How she convey'd him softly in a sleep,
His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
Head of old Latmos, where she