These are lines for you, sir! They are mine. What do you think of them? _North_.--I think very well of them; they remind one of Coleridge's "Eolian Harp." They are very pretty lines, Mr. Landor. I have written some worse myself. _Landor_--So has Wordsworth. Attend to the echo in the _Excursion_. "I have seen A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract Of inland ground, applying to his ear The convolutions of a smooth-lipp'd shell, To which, in silence hush'd, his very soul Listen'd intensely, and his countenance soon Brighten'd with joy; for, murmuring from within, Were heard sonorous cadences, whereby, To his belief, the monitor express'd Mysterious union with its native sea." _North_.--There is certainly much resemblance between the two passages; and, so far as you have recited Wordsworth's, his is not superior to yours; which very likely, too, suggested it; though that is by no means a sure deduction, for the thought itself is as common as the sea-shell you describe, and, in all probability, at least as old as the Deluge. _Landor_.--"_It is but justice to add, that this passage has been the most admired of any in Mr. Wordsworth's great poem_." [119] [Footnote 119: From Mr. Landor, _verbatim_.] _North_.--Hout, tout, man! The author of the _Excursion_ could afford to spare you a thousand finer passages, and he would seem none the poorer. As to the imputed plagiarism, Wordsworth would no doubt have avowed it had he been conscious that it was one, and that you could attach so much importance to the honour of having reminded him of a secret in conchology, known to every old nurse in the country, as well as to every boy or girl that ever found a shell on the shore, or was tall enough to reach one off a cottage parlour mantelpiece; but which he could apply to a sublime and reverent purpose, never dreamed of by them or you. It is in the application of the familiar image, that we recognise the master-hand of the poet. He does not stop when he has described the toy, and the effect of air within it. The lute in Hamlet's hands is not more philosophically dealt with. There is a pearl within Wordsworth's shell, which is not to be found in your's, Mr. Landor. He goes on:-- "Even such a shell the universe itself Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times, I doubt not, when to you it cloth impart Authentic tidings of invisible things-- Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power, And central peace subsisting at the heart Of endless agitation." These are the lines of a poet, who not only stoops to pick up a shell now and then, as he saunters along the sea-shore, but who is accustomed to climb to the promontory above, and to look upon the ocean of things:-- "From those imaginative heights that yield Far-stretching views into eternity."