until the time when his death was announced.
When the present writer inquired of the late Mr. Froude
, twenty years ago, about his neighbor in London
, the late Kenelm H. Digby
, author of that delightful book The Broad Stone of Honor
, the historian proved never to have heard of either the man or the book.
A friend of mine, visiting Stoke Pogis last year, had pointed out to her by the verger the grave of “the American
poet, Thomas Gray
A young English girl of eighteen, just arrived in this country, and looking at the name of Thackeray
on my book-shelf, remarked, “He is one of your American novelists, is he not?”
And a well-known Canadian statesman told me that a London maiden had just made to him a similar remark about Tennyson
Yet the least probable of these anecdotes, or the joint improbability of all put together, is brought within the domain of reasonable credibility by the announcement that Mr. Lang
is just reading the Waverley Novels
, or any one of them, for the first time.
For this author, it must be remembered, is proud to proclaim himself a child of the Tweed; and though his severest foes, like Mr.
, may pronounce him “a ”