ing without bringing their own
individuality before the reader. They infuse, they breathe life into
every object they approach, but you never find _themselves_. At the head
of the second class, those whom you can trace individually in all they
write, I would place Spenser and Milton. In all that Spenser writes you
can trace the gentle affectionate spirit of the man; in all that Milton
writes you find the exalted sustained being that he was. Now in what
Goethe writes, who aims to be of the first class, the _universal_, you
find the man himself, the artificial man, where he should not be found;
so consider him a very artificial writer, aiming to be universal, and
yet constantly exposing his individuality, which his character was not
of a kind to dignify. He had not sufficiently clear moral perceptions to
make him anything but an artificial writer.

Tuesday, the 2d of May, Wordsworth and Miss F. came early to walk about
and dine. He was in a very happy kindly mood. We took a walk on the
terrace, and he went as usual to his favourite points. On our return he
was struck with the berries on the holly tree, and said, 'Why should not
you and I go and pull some berries from the other side of the tree,
which is not seen from the window? and then we can go and plant them in
the rocky ground behind the house.' We pulled the berries, and set forth
with our tool. I made the holes, and the Poet put in the berries. He was
as earnest and eager about it, as if it had been a matter of importance;
and as he put the seeds in, he every now and then muttered, in his low
solemn tone, that beautiful verse from Burns's 'Vision:'

'And wear thou this, she solemn said,
And bound the holly round my head.
The polished leaves and berries red
Did rustling play;
And like a passing thought she fled
In light away.'

He clambered to the highest rocks in the 'Tom Intake,' and put in the
berries in such situations as Nature sometimes does with such true and
beautiful effect. He said, 'I like to do this for posterity. Some people
are selfish enough to say, What has posterity done for me? but the past
does much for us.'

(II.) ADDITIONAL SENT TO THE PRESENT EDITOR BY LADY RICHARDSON.

_August 28th_, 1841.--Mr. Wordsworth, Miss Fenwick, and Mrs. Hill came
to dine, and it rained on the whole day, but happily the Poet talked on
from two to eight without being weary, as we certainly were not. After
dinner, when we came