[Manchester—Thursday, 31 August 1865]

August 31. Forceythe Willson passed the day and gave me a poem as he departed, saying “it is not possible to well express one’s gratitude for pleasure received fitly in speech but the artist could give his picture, the poet his poem & the rhymer his rhymes and so I give you mine” “L’ Inncoronata” it is called. His last words were “I am glad to go, to stay I should be rejoiced.”

We went to the “Cliff” in the afternoon. The white gulls chased each other over our heads and the winds blew back the flowing hair of the poet as he lay upon the ground and drank up beauty with a full soul. He believes with me that truth is the star which the poet is to wear forever on his brow.

In speaking of Horace Mann he said his eye was like a pointed ball which when shot upon you in full ardor shot through and through.

There are no poets now he says, and may not be for two centuries but the poet is coming, he is coming and will be grand as the continent when he arrives.

We talked of Dante which I have just finished for the first time. The introduction of Beatrice with her beatific gentleness, softening the cruel severity of the surrounding picture appears to him touching and beautific [sic] beyond words to express.

I told him the distinction of the vision was perhaps the quality which impressed me most; distinct beyond the energy of the poet to interpret.


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