that this was the very place, though there was nothing remarkable in the appearance of it. It was a small but neat brick house, not standing by itself, but rather forming one end, as it were, of the larger mansion of the surgeon's,—with the gable to the street. There was a neat yard, covered with grass and bordered with flower-beds, with here and there a brilliant dahlia raising its crimson head, in the midst of other less showy, but not less pretty, daughters of the earth. On each side of the gate stood a fine elm; and in one corner of the yard, near the door, was a tall poplar, which the poetess, no doubt, had often heard whispering to the evening breeze, as she stood there meditating, at the calm twilight hour. Upon the wall of the house and by the side of the window, hung the reverential ivy, which lovès to haunt, it seems, not only ancient ruins, but all places where the great have been: it is the plant of memory. Another window was shaded by the delicate laburnum.

As I raised my hand to knock, I was arrested for an instant by the odd look of the knocker. Upon it, standing out in bass-relief, was a little round head, surmounted by a wig, and with a most benevolent smiling face, like that of "the fine old English gentleman" himself,-so kindly and goodnatured was the expression. "You have seen her often enough, at any rate," said I, addressing the image and with that, I knocked.

The door was presently opened by a middle-aged, rosy-faced dame, with a benignant countenance, corresponding to the old gentleman's on the knocker. "Can you tell me," said I with earnestness, "whether

this is the house in which Mrs. Hemans, the poetess, lived?"

"This is the house, sir," she replied, with a smile.

“I am a stranger, an American," I said. "Mrs. Hemans is greatly esteemed in our country,-will you permit me to step in for a moment, to look at the house in which she resided ?"

"Certainly, certainly, sir-walk in," she answered very graciously; and leading the way, she turned into a little room, just on the left of the door, and looking round—“This, sir,” said she, "is the very room where she made her poetry-this, and another small room adjoining, which was also a favourite sitting-room of hers, but that we now use as a kitchen."

I looked round the apartment, with feelings I cannot describe, at the thought that I was standing in the very room where probably were composed of those poems many which had charmed my early youth, and which, by association, were now awakened in my memory;-that I was looking out at the very window, through which she had so often looked up at the blue heavens, or at the setting sun, when, perhaps, she had risen from her desk fatigued with the task of composition. But that pure spirit is now in a land where there is no weariness,-where the winged soul mounts freshly from height to height, ever vivified and renewed, as it ascends nearer and more near to the Divine source of its power and its joy. In that sweet song of hers, “Come to the Sunset Tree," how did the poetess herself express her longing anticipation of that state of blessed

peace, which we may trust she has now real

ized:

"Sweet is the hour of rest,

Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
The gleaming of the west,

And the turf whereon we lie:--
But rest more sweet and still
Than even night-fall gave,

Our yearning hearts shall fill,
In the world beyond the grave."

Yes! the "yearning heart" is now satisfied: her work is done-her trials are over: she is now at rest in the peaceful heavens.

"And this is the very furniture," I ventured to "that she used ?"

ask,

"O no, sir, it is not," frankly replied our hostess, "it has all been changed."

66

Perhaps, it is the same paper on the wall?" I added, carrying my curiosity to what was perhaps an unwarrantable extent. But the kind-hearted woman entered into my feeling, and answered smilingly, "No, sir, that is not the same, either; we put it on since we came. The grates, too, we thought rather too old-fashioned for us, and we took them away, and put these in their place.'

"Well,” said I, feeling sure I should be right this time, the knocker on the door is the same,-is it not?"

"O yes, sir," she replied, "that is the same,—the knocker, and locks on the doors, and everything of that sort, are just the same."

I thought so I was sure the merry face on the door was not among the new things; in fact, the

knocker had plainly an antique air: the old gentleman spoke for himself, and eloquently too. It was plain that he had often looked with his kindly smile into the sweet face of the poetess, as she came in after her morning's walk. That was something.

66

The landlady remarked, in the course of the conversation, that she had never read Mrs. Hemans's poems herself, but she had heard so much about her since she came there, that she thought she should. Three or four other persons, she said, had called to see the house; one gentleman had sat down on the sofa there, and seemed to be thinking it over in his mind that Mrs. Hemans had made her poetry in that room." The simplicity and evident truthfulness of the good woman, so different from the manner and spirit of ordinary exhibitors of famed places, both satisfied and delighted me: I was sure that I was standing on charmed, I might almost say sacred, ground.

On rising to depart, I asked leave to take a flower, a leaf, anything-as a memento: the request was readily granted. I desired her to pick me a few leaves from the ivy on the wall: "I will," she replied, "but perhaps you would rather gather them yourself." This delicate understanding of my feeling charmed me: I did so.

"And that poplar-tree was certainly here, in her time," she added, "won't you take some sprigs of that?" I pulled a few leaves from the tree, and also, at her suggestion, cut a rod from it, which was

C

a more valuable, as it would be a more durable, memento.

We then, with many thanks, took our leave, congratulating ourselves on the successful issue of our enterprise.