All other passions do some end pursue,
And in fruition die—to live anew,
And seek the food that kills. Love’s finer frame
Turns all to aliment and honey-dew;
Of past, of future, hardly knows the name,
Exists self-poised, and wishes all its days the same.
Aug. 31, 1820, Tunbridge Wells.—Safe at the Sussex Hotel, after going down such hills! The road most beautiful from luxuriance of vegetation and display of the finest trees, chiefly elms, with all their varieties of wreathed roots, mossy or shining stems, and picturesque forms. All around shines with neatness, high finish, and an air of prosperity. Orchard gardens and hop-grounds meet us at every step, yet not so as to detract from the general air of freedom and nature in the landscape.
Sept. 5.—This pretty spot is just as I left it, except that formerly all strove to meet, and now all seek to avoid each other. Refinement, an increasing taste for domestic life, purer morals, poverty, may all have some share in this change. It is no matter of regret to me, whose highest pleasures are within my own dear family circle. Yes, I forget another novelty, a clean, square, creditable brick-built Methodist chapel, where I heard a sermon last night that in point of matter was not unworthy of any pulpit in Great Britain. The manner was less pleasing, yet there was an air of sincerity which secured sympathy and attention. The extemporaneous prayers and singing were also good. On the whole, there was not a peg whereon to hang a fault; and I hope I do not derogate from Church of Englandism by saying I thought it a very suitable, rational, and pleasant way of passing an hour, and one calculated to awaken and confirm religious feelings.