I have certainly spent some enviable ours at inns--sometimes When I have been left entirely to myself，and have tried tO solve some metaphysical problem，as once at Witham—common，where I found out the proof that likeness iS not a case of the association of ideas-at other times．when there have been pictures in the room，as at St．Neot’S(I think it was)，where I first met with Gribelin’S engravings of the Cartoons．into which I entered at once，and at a little inn on the border of Wales，where there happened to be hanging some of Westall’S drawings，which I compared triumphantly(for a theory that I had，not for the admired artist)with the figure of a girl who had ferried me over the Severn，standing up in the boat between me and the twiligh卜_at other times I might mention luxuriating in books，with a peculiar interest in this way，as I remember sitting up half the night to read Paul and Virginia，which I picked up at an inn at Bridgewater，after being drenched in the rain an day；and at the same place I got through two volumes of Madame Darblay’S Camilla．It was on the tenth of April，1 798，that I sat down tO a volume of the New Eloise，at the inn at Llangollen，over a bottle of sherry and a cold chicken．The letter I chose was that in which St．Preux describes his feelings as he first caught a glimpse from the heights of the Jura of the Pays de Vaud，which I had brought with me as a bon bouche to crown the evening with．It was my birthday，and I had for the first time come from a place in the neighbourhood to visit this delightful spot．The road to Llangollen turns off between Chirk and Wrexham；and on passing a certain point you come all at once upon the valley，which opens like an amphitheatre，broad，barren bills rising in majestic state on either side，with“green upland swells that echo to the bleat of flocks’’below，and the river Dee babbling over its stony bed in the midst of them．The valley at this time“glittered green with sunny showers．’’and a budding ash-tree dipped its tender branches in the chiding stream．How proud，how glad 1 was to walk along the high road that overlooks thedelicious prospect，repeating the lines which I have just quoted from Mr．Coleridge’S poems!But besides the prospect which opened beneath myfeet，another also opened to my inward sight，a heavenly vision，on whichwere written，in letters large as hope could make them，these four words，LIBERTY，GENIUS，LOVE，VIRTUE；which have since faded into thelight of common day，or mock my idle gaze．
“The beautiful is vanished，and returns not．’’ Still 1 would return some time or other tO this enchanted spot；but 1would return to it alone．What other self could I find to share that influxof thoughts，of regret，and delight，the fragments of which I could hardlyconjure up to myself,SO much have they been broken and defaced．I could stand on some tall rock，and overlook the precipice of years that separates me from what I then was．1 was at that time going shortly tovisit the poet whom I have above named．Where he now?Not only I myself have changed；the world which was then new tO me，has become old and incorrigible．Yet will I turn to thee in thought，O sylvan Dee，injoy，in youth and gladness as thou then wert；and thou shalt always be to me the river of Paradise．where 1 will drink of the waters of life freely!
