His soul overflowed with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous nature that the worldly-minded teach us to look for only in the imagination. But even human sympathies were not sufficient to satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of external nature, which others regard only with admiration, he loved with ardour:— ——The sounding cataract Haunted him like a p****ion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to him An appe****e; a feeling, and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrow’d from the eye. [Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey”.] And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost for ever? Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on the life of its creator;—has this mind perished? Do