chiefly comic, and not bad; but one French piece, by some sixteen juveniles, had a lovely boy with a lovely voice piping clear, sweet, and high, like a lark, Thackeray was in raptures with that boy. Thackeray called on me, and I must try to find him. He lives in a very pretty square not far from Ticknor's. Mackintosh and I have driven down to Chelsea; missed Carlyle. There is a good, fierce picture of him in the Exhibition.

I very much wish you were here. I am for the Continent, and want a party. Had a long talk with J. P. K. on politics; Southern view; gave him a Northern one; delighted probably with each other. We now hear that Sumner is worse. Truly I hope that is not so. There is heat enough in the contest already, without any more disaster in that direction. If he should die, Achilles would rage in the Trojan trenches.

Love to dearest F., and say how much we all wish you were here, and what a bumper you would have. . .

John Lothrop Motley feels "like a donkey" when complimented by a great lady

(To his wife)

Y DEAREST MARY,

MY

LONDON, May 28th, 1858

I believe you have never seen Thackeray. He has the appearance of a colossal infant, smooth, white, shiny ringlety hair, flaxen, alas, with advancing years, a roundish face, with a little dab of a nose upon which it is a perpetual wonder how he keeps his spectacles, a sweet but rather piping voice, with something of the childish treble about it, and a very tall, slightly stooping figure - such are the characteristics of

Blushing like a Peony

everybody else in England-nothing original, all planed down into perfect uniformity with that of his fellow

very urgent

to call at the room Lady L.

On Thursday, according to express and invitation, I went with Mrs. Amory and S Lyndhursts'. As soon as I got into the opened upon me such a torrent of civilities that I was nearly washed away. I certainly should not repeat, even to you, and even if I remembered it, the particular phraseology. . . . I would no more write such things, even to my mother, than I would go and stand on my head in the middle of Pall Mall. I feel like a donkey, and am even now blushing unseen, like a peony or any other delicate flower, at the very idea of writing such trash, and I beg that you will thrust my letter into the fire at once.... God bless you, dearest Mary; kiss my darling children, and believe in the love of

Your affectionate,

J. L. M. From the " Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley," edited by George William Curtis. Copyright, 1889, by J. Lewis Stackpole.

Bayard Taylor hears Tennyson read "The Idylls of the King," and likes Matthew Arnold at first sight

WE

GOTHA, GERMANY, March 11, 1867

E landed at Southampton in heavenly May weather, and I determined to visit Farringford before going on to London. So I wrote at once to Tennyson, proposing a visit of an hour or two. Next morning came a friendly reply from Mrs. T., saying that there was a room ready for us, and we must make a longer visit. M. and I crossed to Cowes and Newport, and took a "fly" to Farringford, distant twelve miles; a glorious

drive across the Isle of Wight, between ivied hedges and past gardens of laurel and lauristinus in blossom. Green meadows, cowslips, daisies, and hyacinths, - think of that for February 21st! I found Farringford wonderfully improved the little park is a gem of gardening art. The magnificent Roman ilexes in front of the house are finer than any I saw in Italy. We arrived about three o'clock, and were ushered into the drawing-room. The house has been refurnished, and a great many pictures and statues added since I was there. In a minute in came Tennyson, cordial as an old friend, followed by his wife. In Tennyson himself I could see no particular change. He did not seem older than when I saw him last. We walked through the park and garden; then M. returned to the house, while he and I went up on the downs, and walked for miles along the chalk cliffs above the sea. He was delightfully free and confidential, and I wish I could write to you much of what he said; but it was so inwrought with high philosophy and broad views of life that a fragment here and there would not fairly represent him. He showed me all his newly acquired territory; among the rest, a great stretch of wheat-fields bought for him by "Enoch Arden." We dined at six in a quaint room hung with pictures, and then went to the drawing-room for dessert. Tennyson and I retired to his study at the top of the house, lit pipes, and talked of poetry. He asked me if I could read his "Boadicea." I thought I could. "Read it, and let me see!" said he. "I would rather hear you read it!" I answered. Thereupon he did so, chanting the lumbering lines with great unction. I spoke of the idyl of Guinivere as being perhaps his finest poem, and said that I could not read it aloud without my voice breaking down at certain passages. "Why, I can read it, and keep my voice!" he exclaimed triumphantly. This I

Sherry and the "Idylls"

doubted, and he agreed to try, after we went down to our wives. But the first thing he did was to produce a magnum of wonderful sherry, thirty years old, which had been sent him by a poetic wine-dealer. Such wine I never tasted. "It was meant to be drunk by Cleopatra, or Catharine of Russia," said Tennyson. We had two glasses apiece, when he said, "To-night you shall help me drink one of the few bottles of my Waterloo, 1815." The bottle was brought, and after another glass all around Tennyson took up the "Idylls of the King." His reading is a strange, monotonous chant, with unexpected falling inflections, which I cannot describe, but can imitate exactly. It is very impressive. In spite of myself I became very much excited as he went on. Finally, when Arthur forgives the Queen, Tennyson's voice fairly broke. I found tears on my cheeks, and M. and Mrs. Tennyson were crying, one on either side of me. He made an effort, and went on to the end, closing grandly. "How can you say," I asked (referring to previous conversation)" that you have no surety of permanent fame ? This poem will only die with the language in which it is written." Mrs. Tennyson started up from her couch. "It is true!" she exclaimed. "I have told Alfred the same thing."

66

After that we went up to the garret to smoke and talk. Tennyson read the "Hylas" of Theocritus in Greek, his Own "Northern Farmer," and Andrew Marvell's "Coy Mistress." . . . We parted at two o'clock, and met again at nine in the breakfast room. I had arranged to leave at noon, so there were only three hours left, but I had them with him on the lawn, and in the nook under the roof. ... Tennyson said at parting, "The gates are always open to you." His manner was altogether more cordial and intimate than at my first visit. He took up the acquaintance where it first broke off, and had forgotten

no word (neither had I) of our conversation ten years ago. When I spoke of certain things in his poetry, which I specially valued, he said more than once, "But the critics blame me for just that. It is only now and then a man like yourself who sees what I meant to do." He is very sensitive to criticism, I find, but perhaps not more than the rest of us; only one sees it more clearly in another. Our talk was to me delightful; it was as free and frank as if you had been in his place. I felt, when I left Farringford, that I had a friend's right to return again.

Soon after reaching London, I called on dear old Barry Cornwall, who has taken a great liking to Lorry Graham. Mrs. Procter invited both of us and our wives to a literary soirée at their house. In the mean time Lorry took me with him to call on Matthew Arnold. He is a man to like, if not love, at first sight. His resemblance to George Curtis struck both of us. A little more stoutly built, more irregularly masculine features, but the same general character of man, with the same full, mellow voice. After Thackeray, I think I should soon come to like him better than any other Englishman. His eyes sparkled when I told him that I always kept his poems on my library table. He said they were not popular, and he was always a little surprised when any one expressed a particular liking for them. I did not make a long visit, knowing that he was run down with government work.

M. joins me in dearest love to you and L. Would you could be here a while to rest your busy brain! It is late at night, and I must close. Pray write to me some quiet Sunday morning, when you have leisure, and write me all the news. Recollect, I am absent and you are at home, so your letters are worth the most.

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Vale! .