leaves made
the court wet and dirty; the branches obstructed the light; boys threw
stones at the nuts when they were ripe, and the noise affected her
nerves; and disturbed her profound meditations, when she was weighing
the difficulties of Kennicot, Semler, and Michaelis. Finding that all
the parish, particularly the old people, were displeased, I asked "why
they allowed it?" "Ah, sir!" they replied, "when the steward orders,
what can we poor peasants do?" But one thing has happened well. The
steward and the vicar (who, for once, thought to reap some advantage
from the caprices of his wife) intended to divide the trees between
them. The revenue-office, being informed of it, revived an old claim to
the ground where the trees had stood, and sold them to the best bidder.
There they still lie on the ground. If I were the sovereign, I should
know how to deal with them all, vicar, steward, and revenue-office.
Sovereign, did I say? I should, in that case, care little about the
trees that grew in the country.

OCTOBER 10.

Only to gaze upon her dark eyes is to me a source of happiness! And
what grieves me, is, that Albert does not seem so happy as he--hoped to
be--as I should have been--if--I am no friend to these pauses, but here
I cannot express it otherwise; and probably I am explicit enough.

OCTOBER 12.

Ossian has superseded Homer in my heart. To what a world does the
illustrious bard carry me! To wander over pathless wilds, surrounded by
impetuous whirlwinds, where, by the feeble light of the moon, we see the
spirits of our ancestors; to hear from the mountain-tops, mid the roar
of torrents, their plaintive sounds issuing from deep caverns, and the
sorrowful lamentations of a maiden who sighs and expires on the mossy
tomb of the warrior by whom she was adored. I meet this bard with silver
hair; he wanders in the valley; he seeks the footsteps of his fathers,
and, alas! he finds only their tombs. Then, contemplating the pale moon,
as she sinks beneath the waves of the rolling sea, the memory of
bygone days strikes the mind of the hero, days when approaching danger
invigorated the brave, and the moon shone upon his bark laden with
spoils, and returning in triumph. When I read in his countenance deep
sorrow, when I see his dying glory sink exhausted into the grave, as he
inhales new and heart-thrilling delight from his approaching union with
his beloved, and he casts a look on the cold earth and the tall grass
which is