"Here, too, were _forms and pressures of the time_, Rough, bold, as Grecian comedy display'd When Art was young; dramas of living men, And recent things yet warm with life; a sea-fight, Shipwreck, or some domestic incident Divulged by Truth, and magnified by Fame; Such as the daring brotherhood of late Set forth, too serious theme for that light place-- I mean, O distant friend! a story drawn From our own ground--the Maid of Buttermere, And how, unfaithful to a virtuous wife, Deserted and deceived, the spoiler came And wooed the artless daughter of the hills, And wedded her, in cruel mockery Of love and marriage bonds. These words to thee Must needs bring back the moment when we first, Ere the broad world rang with the maiden's name, Beheld her serving at the cottage inn, Both stricken, as she enter'd or withdrew, With admiration of her modest mien And carriage, mark'd by unexampled grace. We since that time not unfamiliarly Have seen her--her discretion have observed, Her just opinions, delicate reserve, Her patience and humility of mind, Unspoiled by commendation and the excess Of public notice--an offensive light To a meek spirit suffering inwardly." The "distant friend" here apostrophized is Coleridge, then at Malta. But it is fair to record this memorial of the fair mountaineer--going perhaps as much beyond the public estimate of her pretensions as my own was below it. It should be added that William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge (to whom the writer appeals as in general sympathy with himself) had seen Mary more frequently, and had conversed with her much more freely, than myself.