mbrance is that of Charles Sumner, senator and martyr.
When I first saw him I was still a girl in my father's house, from which the father had then but recently passed.
My eldest brother, Samuel Ward, had made Mr. Sumner's acquaintance through a letter of introduction given to the latter by Mr. Longfellow.
At his suggestion we invited Mr. Sumner to pass a quiet evening at our house, promising him a little music.
Our guest had but recently returned from England, where letters from Chief Justice Story had given him access both to literary and to aristocratic circles.
His appearance was at that time rather singular.
He was very tall and erect, and the full suit of black which he wore added to the effect of his height and slenderness of figure.
Of his conversation, I remember chiefly that he held the novels of Walter Scott in very light esteem, and that he quoted with approbation Sir Adam Ferguson as having said that Manzoni's Promessi Sposi was worth more than all of Sir Walter's
t of which stood its proprietor, holding in his arms the body of his little child, just dead, in the middle of his performance.
Beside him stood his wife, in great grief, and at her feet the trick dogs, fantastically dressed, showed in their brute countenances the sympathy which those animals often evince when made aware of some misfortune befalling their master.
Here we also saw a model of the enormous vase which the artist had sent to the exposition of that year (1879), and which William W. Story contemptuously called Doreas bottle.
The artist professed himself weary of painting for the moment.
He seemed to have taken much interest in his recent modeling, and called our attention to a genius cast in bronze, which he had hoped that the municipality would have purchased for the illumination of the Place de l'opera.
The head was surrounded by a coronet intended to give forth jets of flame, while the wings and body should be outlined by lights of another color.
In the course