Mr. Wordsworth spoke with, more liberality than we expected of the recent measures about the Corn Laws, saying that “the principle was certainly right, though as to whether existing interests had been as carefully attended to as was just, he was not prepared to say.”  His neighbors were pleased to hear of his speaking thus mildly, and hailed it as a sign that he was opening his mind to more light on these subjects.  They lament that his habits of seclusion keep him much ignorant of the real wants of England and the world.  Living in this region, which is cultivated by small proprietors, where there is little poverty, vice, or misery, he hears not the voice which cries so loudly from other parts of England, and will not be stilled by sweet poetic suasion or philosophy, for it is the cry of men in the jaws of destruction.

It was pleasant to find the reverence inspired by this great and pure mind warmest nearest home.  Our landlady, in heaping praises upon him, added, constantly, “And Mrs. Wordsworth, too.”  “Do the people here,” said I, “value Mr. Wordsworth most because he is a celebrated writer?” “Truly, madam,” said she, “I think it is because he is so kind a neighbor.”

  “True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.”

Dr. Arnold, too,—­who lived, as his family still live, here,—­diffused the same ennobling and animating spirit among those who knew him in private, as through the sphere of his public labors.

Miss Martineau has here a charming residence; it has been finished only a few months, but all about it is in unexpectedly fair order, and promises much beauty after a year or two of growth.  Here we found her restored to full health and activity, looking, indeed, far better than she did when in the United States.  It was pleasant to see her in this home, presented to her by the gratitude of England for her course of energetic and benevolent effort, and adorned by tributes of affection and esteem from many quarters.  From the testimony of those who were with her in and since her illness, her recovery would seem to be of as magical quickness and sure progress as has been represented.  At the house of Miss Martineau I saw Milman, the author, I must not say poet,—­a specimen of the polished, scholarly man of the world.

We passed one most delightful day in a visit to Langdale,—­the scene of “The Excursion,”—­and to Dungeon-Ghyll Force.  I am finishing my letter at Carlisle on my way to Scotland, and will give a slight sketch of that excursion, and one which occupied another day, from Keswick to Buttermere and Crummock Water, in my next.

LETTER III.

WESTMORELAND.—­LANGDALE.—­DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.—­KESWICK.—­CARLISLE.—­ BRANXHOLM.—­SCOTT.—­BURNS.

Edinburgh, 20th September, 1846.

I have too long delayed writing up my journal.—­Many interesting observations slip from recollection if one waits so many days:  yet, while travelling, it is almost impossible to find an hour when something of value to be seen will not be lost while writing.