John Bellows Letters and memoir . eece and thePersian plains, and the mountains of India and the shoresof Siberia, As I shall never forget the Thuringian Forest,neither shall I ever forget the majestic sound of the streetsof Leipzig and all that that sound conveyed to the imagina-tion, of the throng of kindreds and peoples and tongueswhose voice it was: a vast, sublime, never-ending poem. In August, 1890, John Bellows cycled through Cornwallwith his two elder boys, on their way to join the rest of the family at the Bell Hotel, Lis-keard, he wrote to hiswife :—As we went up toour r
John Bellows Letters and memoir . eece and thePersian plains, and the mountains of India and the shoresof Siberia, As I shall never forget the Thuringian Forest,neither shall I ever forget the majestic sound of the streetsof Leipzig and all that that sound conveyed to the imagina-tion, of the throng of kindreds and peoples and tongueswhose voice it was: a vast, sublime, never-ending poem. In August, 1890, John Bellows cycled through Cornwallwith his two elder boys, on their way to join the rest of the family at the Bell Hotel, Lis-keard, he wrote to hiswife :—As we went up toour rooms, both of whichfaced into the little narrow Church Street, it seemedas though a tall man mighthave leaned out of the win-dow and touched the panesof the grocers shop oppo-site. With a stick I cer-tainly could have done did not know till thismorning, when Mary Eliottmost kindly walked downthe street with us afterMeeting, to show me the spot, that my room was next tothe house in which I was bom, and that the street I was. BIRTHPLACE AT LISKEARD. OVER THE TEACUPS 79 so amused with as a sort of dolls roadway, was the veryone upon which my baby wonderment had first lookeddown, long years ago! To Oliver Wendell Holmes^ Boston, 12 mo. 1890. Which chord shall I touch to begin with, as I rise fromthe first few hours delightful reading of thy book ? * Somany are answering to the master vibration that I canscarcely decide. I have been reading it aloud to my wife ; and againand again in the pauses, some lines of Runeberg, the poetof Finland, have kept coming back to me in gentle refrain,although I have not read them for years: Shall the land that saw thy morning bloom, That saw thy noonday bright,Not also see thy evening comeWith its calm sweet sunset light ? One mystery thy volume has set me further away thanever from solving: and that is. Where is the boundarybetween childhood and boyhood ; or boyhood and manhoodand [old] age? This I have never been able to find. , . On
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