Biding grew into a passion with me at that time. There is such excitement in the rapid motion--in the impatience of the animal that bears one along--in the sense of power--in the feeling of life, which is never so strong within one, as when, over a common, or a wild muir, one can dash along at the horse's full speed, with the wind in one's face, and the turf under one's feet. In every weather I rode; the more heavily it rained, the more wildly it blew, the more I enjoyed excursions that lasted several hours, and after which I returned home, fatigued in body, excited in mind, and able to sleep at night from sheer exhaustion. Henry was my constant companion on these occasions, and indulged every fancy I formed, as to the length and direction of these excursions. He applauded my courage when, arrested by no obstacles, I cleared fence after fence, or waded through rapid streams, in order to arrive, a quarter of an hour sooner, at some point I had fixed upon. His talent for conversation was great, and he possessed the art of captivating the attention to an extraordinary degree. Intercourse with him became to me, in a moral point of view, what riding was in a physical: It was an exercise of the mental faculties, that stilled the process of self-tormenting within me. He admired me--I saw it plainly, and far more than he had done before the change that had come over me; at least I fancied so; and one day, as I was turning over the leaves of a blotting-paper book, in the library, I found the following verses: "She was a child, and in her dreamless eyes There slept a world of unawakened thought-- And in her voice, her laughter, and her sighs, No spirit lingered, and no magic wrought; For as the haze that veils the glorious skies At morning prime; or as the mist that lies On ocean's might: or as the solemn hour Of Nature's silence, when the Heavens lower, Such was her childhood; but its hour is past; The veil is drawn, the mist has cleared at last. And what though with a storm! Who does not find In wind, in waves, in Nature's wildest strife With things material, or in man's own mind, A deeper and more glorious sense of life Than in the calm of silent apathy? Who would not stand within the Sun's full blaze, Though scorched and dazzled by his burning rays? Oh, we can watch with ardent sympathy. The stormy floods of rising passion roll Their swelling surges o'er the silent soul! And we can gaze exulting on the brow Where restless thoughts and new, are crowding now: Each throb, each struggle, serving but to feed The flame of genius, and the source of thought. Be mine the task, be mine the joy, to read Each mood, each change, by time and feeling wrought, And as the mountain stream reflects the light That shoots athwart the sky's tempestuous track, So shall my soul, her soul's impassioned might, As in a broken mirror, image back."