I never spend half an hour any where with more pleasure and profit than with the ex-minister's family. His lady is of Irish parentage, an O'Leary, a most amiable and kind woman, and truly appreciating the worth and talent of her husband; and all the nephews and other relations I meet there appear superior in education and understanding to the generality of persons I see. But it is Jose Bonifacio himself who attracts and interests me most. He is a small man, with a thin lively countenance; and his manner and conversation at once impress the beholder with the idea of that restless activity of mind which "O'er-informs its tenement of clay," and is but too likely to wear out the body that contains it. The first time I saw him in private was after he ceased to be minister, his occupations before that time leaving him little leisure for private society. I was curious to see the retreat of a public man. I found him surrounded by young people and children, some of whom he took on his knee and caressed; and I could easily see that he was very popular among the small people. To me, as a stranger, he was most ceremoniously yet kindly polite, and conversed on all subjects and of all countries. He has visited most of those of Europe. His library is well stored with books in all languages. The collection on chemistry and on mining is particularly extensive, and rich in Swedish and German authors. These, indeed, are subjects peculiarly interesting to Brazil, and have naturally been of first-rate interest to him. But his delight is classical literature; and he is himself a poet of no mean order. Perhaps my knowledge of Portuguese does not entitle me to judge particularly on the vehicle or language of his poetry; but if lofty thoughts, new and beautiful combinations, keen sensibility, and a love of beauty and of nature, be essential to poetry, the poems he read to me to-day have them all. There is one in particular, on the Creation of Woman, glowing as the sun under which it was written, and as pure as his light. Perhaps it derived some of its merit from his manner of reading it, which, though not what is called fine reading, is full of character and intelligence. To-day, Jose Bonifacio gave me a translation from Meleager, which seems to me very beautiful. It was written at Lisbon in 1816, and two or three copies printed by one of his friends, and the last of these is now mine.[125] [Note 125: _Traducçăo_.