continued ever afterwards, in spite of such fitful circumstances and

uncertain outward fluctuations as his were sure of being, to prosecute
it steadily with all the strength he had.

One evening about this time, he came down to us, to Chelsea, most
likely by appointment and with stipulation for privacy; and read, for

our opinion, his Poem of the _Sexton's Daughter_, which we now first
heard of. The judgment in this house was friendly, but not the most

encouraging. We found the piece monotonous, cast in the mould of
Wordsworth, deficient in real human fervor or depth of melody,

dallying on the borders of the infantile and "goody-good;"--in fact,
involved still in the shadows of the surplice, and inculcating (on

hearsay mainly) a weak morality, which he would one day find not to be
moral at all, but in good part maudlin-hypocritical and immoral. As

indeed was to be said still of most of his performances, especially
the poetical; a sickly _shadow_ of the parish-church still hanging

over them, which he could by no means recognize for sickly.
_Imprimatur_ nevertheless was the concluding word,--with these grave

abatements, and rhadamanthine admonitions. To all which Sterling
listened seriously and in the mildest humor. His reading, it might

have been added, had much hurt the effect of the piece: a dreary
pulpit or even conventicle manner; that flattest moaning hoo-hoo of

predetermined pathos, with a kind of rocking canter introduced by way
of intonation, each stanza the exact fellow Of the other, and the dull

swing of the rocking-horse duly in each;--no reading could be more
unfavorable to Sterling's poetry than his own. Such a mode of

reading, and indeed generally in a man of such vivacity the total
absence of all gifts for play-acting or artistic mimicry in any kind,

was a noticeable point.
After much consultation, it was settled at last that Sterling should

go to Madeira for the winter. One gray dull autumn afternoon, towards
the middle of October, I remember walking with him to the eastern Dock

region, to see his ship, and how the final preparations in his own
little cabin were proceeding there. A dingy little ship, the deck

crowded with packages, and bustling sailors within eight-and-forty
hours of lifting anchor; a dingy chill smoky day, as I have said

withal, and a chaotic element and outlook, enough to make a friend's
heart sad. I admired the cheerfulcareless humor and brisk activity

of Sterling, who took the matter all on the sunny side, as he was wont
in such cases. We came home together in manifold talk: he accepted

with the due smile my last contribution to his sea-equipment, a
sixpenny box of German lucifers purchased on the sudden in St. James's

Street, fit to be offered with laughter or with tears or with both; he
was to leave for Portsmouth almost immediately, and there go on board.

Our next news was of his safe arrival in the temperate Isle. Mrs.
Sterling and the children were left at Knightsbridge; to pass this

winter with his Father and Mother.
At Madeira Sterling did well: improved in health; was busy with much

Literature; and fell in with society which he could reckon pleasant.
He was much delighted with the scenery of the place; found the climate

wholesome to him in a marked degree; and, with good news from home,
and kindly interests here abroad, passed no agreeable" target="_blank" title="a.令人不悦的">disagreeable winter in

that exile. There was talking, there was writing, there was hope of
better health; he rode almost daily, in cheerful busy humor, along

those fringed shore-roads:--beautiful leafy roads and horse-paths;
with here and there a wild cataract and bridge to look at; and always

with the soft sky overhead, the dead volcanic mountain on one hand,
and broad illimitable sea spread out on the other. Here are two

Letters which give reasonably good account of him:--
"_To Thomas Carlyle, Esq., Chelsea, London_.

"FUNCHAL, MADEIRA, 16th November, 1837.
"MY DEAR CARLYLE,--I have been writing a good many letters all in a

batch, to go by the same opportunity; and I am thoroughly weary of
writing the same things over and over again to different people. My

letter to you therefore, I fear, must have much of the character of
remainder-biscuit. But you will receive it as a proof that I do not

wish you to forget me, though it may be useless for any other purpose.
"I reached this on the 2d, after a tolerably prosperous voyage,

deformed by some days of sea-sickness, but otherwise not to be
complained of. I liked my twenty fellow-passengers far better than I

expected;--three or four of them I like much, and continue to see
frequently. The Island too is better than I expected: so that my

Barataria at least does not disappoint me. The bold rough mountains,
with mist about their summits, verdure below, and a bright sun over

all, please me much; and I ride daily on the steep and narrow paved
roads, which no wheels ever journeyed on. The Town is clean, and

there its merits end: but I am comfortably lodged; with a large and
pleasant sitting-room to myself. I have met with much kindness; and

see all the society I want,--though it is not quite equal to that of
London, even excluding Chelsea.

"I have got about me what Books I brought out; and have read a little,
and done some writing for _Blackwood_,--all, I have the pleasure to

inform you, prose, nay extremely prose. I shall now be more at
leisure; and hope to get more steadily to work; though I do not know

what I shall begin upon. As to reading, I have been looking at
_Goethe_, especially the _Life_,--much as a shying horse looks at a

post. In truth, I am afraid of him. I enjoy and admire him so much,
and feel I could so easily be tempted to go along with him. And yet I

have a deeply rooted and old persuasion that he was the most splendid
of anachronisms. A thoroughly, nay intensely Pagan Life, in an age

when it is men's duty to be Christian. I therefore never take him up
without a kind of inward check, as if I were trying some forbidden

spell; while, on the other hand, there is so infinitely much to be
learnt from him, and it is so needful to understand the world we live

in, and our own age, and especially its greatest minds, that I cannot
bring myself to burn my books as the converted Magicians did, or sink

them as did Prospero. There must, as I think, have been some
prodigious defect in his mind, to let him hold such views as his about

women and some other things; and in another respect, I find so much
coldness and hollowness as to the highest truths, and feel so strongly

that the Heaven he looks up to is but a vault of ice,--that these two
indications, leading to the same conclusion, go far to convince me he

was a profoundly immoral and irreligious spirit, with as rare
faculties of intelligence as ever belonged to any one. All this may

be mere _goody_ weakness and twaddle, on my part: but it is a
persuasion that I cannot escape from; though I should feel the doing

so to be a deliverance from a most painful load. If you could help
me, I heartily wish you would. I never take him up without high

admiration, or lay him down without real sorrow for what he chose to
be.

"I have been reading nothing else that you would much care for.
Southey's _Amadis_ has amused me; and Lyell's _Geology_ interested me.

The latter gives one the same sort of bewildering view of the abysmal
extent of Time that Astronomy does of Space. I do not think I shall

take your advice as to learning Portuguese. It is said to be very ill
spoken here; and assuredly it is the most direful series of nasal

twangs I ever heard. One gets on quite well with English.
"The people here are, I believe, in a very low condition; but they do

not appear miserable. I am told that the influence of the priests
makes the peasantry all Miguelites; but it is said that nobody wants

any more revolutions. There is no appearance of riot or crime; and
they are all extremely civil. I was much interested by learning that

Columbus once lived here, before he found America and fame. I have
been to see a deserted _quinta_ (country-house), where there is a

great deal of curious old sculpture, in relief, upon the masonry; many
of the figures, which are nearly as large as life, representing

soldiers clad and armed much as I should suppose those of Cortez were.
There are no buildings about the Town, of the smallest pretensions to

beauty or charm of any kind. On the whole, if Madeira were one's
world, life would certainly rather tend to stagnate; but as a

temporary refuge, a niche in an old ruin where one is sheltered from
the shower, it has great merit. I am more comfortable and contented

than I expected to be, so far from home and from everybody I am
closely connected with: but, of course, it is at best a tolerable

exile.