“I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you, For morn is approaching your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glitt’ring with dew.” I paused, recollecting myself, struck with _the ridicule_ of repeating verses, and of indulging feelings in which no one perhaps sympathized. “Those are beautiful lines,” said Leonora: “that poem has always been a favourite of mine.” “And of mine, also,” said Mr. L----. “I prefer Beattie’s Hermit to all other hermits,” said Leonora. I was not in a mood calmly to discuss with her a point of criticism--I walked on in reverie: but in this I was not allowed to indulge. Mr. L----asked if I could not recollect some more of the Hermit--I pleaded the worst memory in the world--a memory that can never recollect any poem perfectly by rote, only the touches of genius or sensibility that strike me--and those are so few! “But in this poem there are so many,” said Leonora. I am sure she insisted only to please her husband, and pleaded against her real feelings, purposely to conceal them. He persisted in his request, with more warmth than usual. I was compelled to rouse myself from my reverie, and to call back my distant thoughts. I repeated all that I could recollect of the poem. Mr. L---- paid me a profusion of compliments upon the sweetness of my voice, and my taste in reciting. He was pleased to find that my manner and tones gave an Italian expression to English poetry, which to him was a peculiar charm. It reminded him of some Signora, whom he had known at Florence. This was the first time I had learned that he had been abroad. I was going to explore the foreign field of conversation which he thus opened; but just at that moment Leonora withdrew her arm from mine, and I fancied that she coloured. This might be only my fancy, or the natural effect of her stooping to gather a flower. We were now within sight of the castle. I pointed to one of the turrets over a Gothic window, upon which the gleams of the setting sun produced a picturesque effect; my glove happened to be off, and Leonora unluckily saw that her husband’s eyes were fixed upon my arm, instead of the turret to which I was pointing. ‘Twas a trifle which I never should have noticed, had she not forced it upon my attention. She actually turned pale. I had the presence of mind not to put on my glove. I must observe more accurately; I must decide whether this angelic Leonora is, or is not susceptible of the mortal passion ycleped jealousy. I confess my curiosity is awakened. Adieu, my ever amiable Gabrielle. OLIVIA. * * * * * LETTER XXII. OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.