“...  It does me good to weep for him, and it does me good to find that others weep, and I bless them for it. ...  It is with me, when I write, as when I am walking out in this vale, once so full of joy.  I can turn to no object that does not remind me of our loss.  I see nothing that he would not have loved, and enjoyed....  My consolations rather come to me in gusts of feeling, than are the quiet growth of my mind.  I know it will not always be so.  The time will come when the light of the setting sun upon these mountain tops will be as heretofore a pure joy; not the same gladness, that can never be—­but yet a joy even more tender.  It will soothe me to know how happy he would have been, could he have seen the same beautiful spectacle....  He was taken away in the freshness of his manhood; pure he was, and innocent as a child.  Never human being was more thoroughly modest, and his courage I need not speak of.  He was ’seen speaking with apparent cheerfulness to the first mate a few minutes before the ship went down;’ and when nothing more could be done, He said, ‘the will of God be done.’  I have no doubt when he felt that it was out of his power to save his life he was as calm as before, if some thought of what we should endure did not awaken a pang....  He loved solitude, and he rejoiced in society.  He would wander alone amongst these hills with his fishing-rod, or led on by the mere pleasure of walking, for many hours; or he would walk with W. or me, or both of us, and was continually pointing out—­with a gladness which is seldom seen but in very young people—­something which perhaps would have escaped our observation; for he had so fine an eye that no distinction was unnoticed by him, and so tender a feeling that he never noticed anything in vain.  Many a time has he called out to me at evening to look at the moon or stars, or a cloudy sky, or this vale in the quiet moonlight; but the stars and moon were his chief delight.  He made of them his companions when he was at sea, and was never tired of those thoughts which the silence of the night fed in him.  Then he was so happy by the fireside.  Any little business of the house interested him.  He loved our cottage.  He helped us to furnish it, and to make the garden.  Trees are growing now which he planted....  He staid with us till the 29th of September, having come to us about the end of January.  During that time Mary Hutchinson—­now Mary Wordsworth—­staid with us six weeks.  John used to walk with her everywhere, and they were exceedingly attached to each other; so my poor sister mourns with us, not merely because we have lost one who was so dear to William and me, but from tender love to John and an intimate knowledge of him.  Her hopes as well as ours were fixed on John....  I can think of nothing but of our departed Brother, yet I am very tranquil to-day.  I honour him, and love him, and glory in his memory....”

Southey, writing to his friend, C. W. W. Wynn, on the 3rd of April 1805, says: